


look after you

by ann_fortunately



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (mcu/comics), (p.s. there's no sexy times until like some point and even then it, Alternate Universe - Superpowers, Alternate universe - Marvel, Angst, Everyone's lgbt i don't care, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Liam Payne/Zayn Malik - Freeform, M/M, Marvel Freeform, Some Humor, a question. thank you., doesn't matter who tops or bottoms so pls don't ask this kind of, everyone's a nerd but zayn tbh. kind of?, gun tw, harry is harry x2 or x3 so you have been warned, house md mentions. like a lot. i'm not even sorry., i miss jay so i have jay, it's complicated - Freeform, later in some chapters, lottie's a little shit, quick burn to slow burn, science nerd louis, shameless use of 1d lyrics when necessary, there are fight scenes but they're light with no blood, there's like a science spidey thing in ch2 i'm not even sorry, tony makes an appearance but fear not, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-05-07 14:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 162,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ann_fortunately/pseuds/ann_fortunately
Summary: "So…" Niall spares him one more skeptical glance. “You're just gonna stick to your weird ass rules and hope for him to never ask you out?""No, of course not." Louis shakes his head, a plan already forming in his head as he nuzzles back into his crossed arms, again free of the teacher’s attention. "I'm gonna do some stupid shit."or: the Marvel/Spider-Man AU where Louis trades sleep for caffeine, Harry’s hell of a chatterbox, and doing things right doesn’t always go hand in hand with positive reactions.





	1. personal space

**Author's Note:**

> This work would not have been possible without support of many people. Along the line I've gathered many personas who have been kind and patient enough to put up with me, give a word of encouragement, and a piece of advice. I want to thank Danae for figuring out the general plot with me. Although we don’t talk these days, I’m grateful for your input. This fic wouldn’t exist without you. I want to thank C for being such great beta and making the story sound better than I could ever manage. Ollie, Bia, Beau, and Elin for putting up with me and my hundreds questions. Charlie for brainstorming and listening, you are truly one patient person. Sheri, Chloë, Bonnie, and Amélie (I’m a self-conscious bitch, don’t @ me) for proofreading and helping me figure out tiny things that mattered. I also thank everyone that I texted at least once to ask about something stupid and random, but very relevant to me.  
> Despite my knowledge of the character, this story required reading quite an amount of comic books for the sole purpose of getting Louis as Marvel’s Peter Parker as right as possible. Given that Louis Tomlinson is also one man with a heart of gold, it wasn't much of a problem to put these two together and make it work.  
> Even if there were thousands of moments when I wanted to set my laptop on fire and throw it out of the window, I enjoyed myself while writing it. I hope you'll enjoy reading it. Lots of love x
> 
> [The story references to the Marvel Universe due to the purposeful placement of the action in said universe.  
> Any similarity between the story and the Marvel comics is either coincidental or purposeful due to the necessity to keep some of the parts of the MU to the original. Any similarity between the story and Spider-Man movies from Sony Entertainment is unintentional. All the characters are fictional. The traits of characters based on real life people exist only for the purpose of the story and claim no literacy to the reality.]
> 
>  
> 
> [you can check out the suit Louis has [here](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DFHHEqMUIAAeWNl.jpg) ]

  **February the 3rd, 2017, Friday**

 

Louis' superpower of choice would be for the ground to crack and part and swallow him whole the moment he thinks of doing something immensely stupid, and then spit him out as soon as the thought leaves the forefront of his mind.

The point is, he needs to pee. Like _now_.

" _Born of the mind of Norman Osborn, the CEO and creator of the industry, the Oscorp Tower houses one hundred and two floors of innovation_ ,” the automated female voice echoes its mantra over the floor teaming with workers and groups of students as Louis tries to pick up his pace in order to catch up with his classmates.

He might or might not have spent a little bit too much time drooling over the hologram blueprints of cross-species drawings,  or at any place they stopped, really. There's a reason why each of his classmates, Niall included, looks like they're a second away from cuffing him up and walking him around on a leash.

Louis thinks that they're simply boring and don't deserve to even be where they are if they don't display the smallest will to shut themselves in the closest lab and use it till kingdom come. Or the police. But that's just him, what does he know?

He wishes he was one of those kids bragging about how they have seen the Oscorp Tower on quite several occasions, but the reality is far from being this favorable to him. Outside of the times he’s caught a glance of it in the press or on the news, he’s never faced the tower in person. And, boy, does it live up to the hype.

One of the tallest skyscrapers on the Manhattan Island, the tower has a massive winding layer of murky green metal surrounding the sides and back of the building, while the front boasts countless windows locked into a metallic honeycomb pattern, which then spiral up to a pinnacle protruding from the top left corner, causing it to stick out like a sore thumb amidst the more non-descript buildings surrounding it.

Where the exterior screams geometry, the interior of the building is a mix of pale greenish colors in a range of shapes and materials, while still managing to give off an impression of perfect order, with the workers sporting seaweed green suits, some with the addition of a white lab coat on top. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many people actually wearing their badges.

Out of the many areas his group has already visited, the Cross-Species facility is definitely Louis’ favorite. He’d gladly stay here for longer than the five minutes they were given, but they’re not even a quarter of the way through the tour, and he has a reputation to uphold.

One that could be drastically altered if they don’t make a stop soon. And it’s not about his not-so-quiet humming Cher to distract himself for fifteen minutes now—he’s pretty sure the security guys like his little bouncing-singing performance. You don’t see a human version of Tigger with a full bladder every day. Not sober.

"Alright, guys!” The leader of their group, a discount version of Robert Pattinson (and the really pretty reason why Louis is still somewhat attached to his classmates) stops the students in the middle of the hall. “I'm gonna take you to the R&D right now. When passing this hall, on your right you'll see..."

Louis doesn’t get to hear the rest of his speech. Reputation be damned, he begins taking steps back. As soon as he sees the last of the group, he turns and starts looking around.

There are priorities in this world, there’s Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, and he _needs to_ _pee_.

After countless glances from workers, seven bodyguards eyeing his badge, and a lot of nervously fixing the glasses on his nose, he finally finds himself at his destination. The door slides shut behind him as he quickly takes in the new surroundings which look like a public restroom got into a polyamorous relationship with too much bathroom cleaner and a green color palette.

Louis catches a glance of his reflection in the full length mirror, but he's in too much of a rush to care about his looks right now. He's well aware that some proper sleep wouldn’t hurt his caffeine and Cornflakes-driven body anyway.

"You get a chance to see Oscorp— _Oscorp_ —and all you do is look for urinals. Peak of intelligence, really, pat yourself on the back."

When conversing with other members of the human race has never made it to the list of your hobbies, and your brain is a storm of ideas, words, and numbers needing an outlet, self-talks aren’t really much of a quirk. Also, it’s good to have someone equally dumb to talk to.

Louis jogs to one of the urinals, unzipping his jeans in the process. Around three seconds into his task, he hears the door slide and someone burst into the room. His head snaps up instinctively and turns in the direction of the sound.

A boy hurriedly walks to the stall several steps away from Louis who quietly thanks the gods above that he’d stopped talking to himself before the stranger got a listen. Not that it matters. After all, what’s a better way for a great first impression that coming across as highkey mentally unstable?

Louis does up his fly, giving a quick glance to the right where the boy lets out a sigh of relief. The corners of Louis’ mouth perk up understandingly. The quick glance turns into a long study of the boy's features, which is about as creepy as it can get considering that the stranger is in the middle of something.

The boy's head is surrounded by a mop of wild, chocolate, cartoon-like curls. His body seems gangly and awkward, as if his brain hasn’t gotten used to how much he's grown yet. He appears to be Louis' age. He's probably one of the kids who came here for a field trip as well, as Louis remembers seeing more buses on the Oscorp’s parking lot.

With the last second of the questionably decent amount of time he's spent on staring, Louis decides it's time for him to turn away before it gets even creepier. He walks towards the sinks, washes his hands, and leaves the washroom.

It was left, down the hall, right, uhm.

He takes one step after crossing the doorstep. _One_. He should be used to it by now, honestly.

"Whoops!"

Before Louis can fathom what's happening, a sudden weight crashes into him, sweeps him off his feet, and knocks the air out of his lungs.

Next thing he knows, he's lying flat on his back with a storm of curls on his chest, and a striking pain in his spine and tailbone. His glasses must have fallen from his nose in the process, so he doesn't really see the boy's face in any detail when he lifts his head.

“Incoming.”

"Hi," Louis croaks out, hoisting himself up and resting his body weight on his elbows. The boy rushes to get up, almost falling back down as he does so, but then he’s on his feet with one hand drawn out. “Thanks.” Louis accepts the help and lets the stranger pull him up, noticing that the boy’s hand is bigger than his, still very wet, and, surprisingly, not as soft as he suspected it would be.

He steadies himself and starts swiping the nonexistent dirt off his pants just so he won't have to maintain eye contact. He tries to focus on the discovery that the floor is cleaner than he thought it was, but then there's a hand on his shoulder and a voice hastily forming words.

“I’m so sorry, shit, did I hurt you? Anything broken? Leg, nose, heart? I don't have bandaids for the last one, but I can be your shoulder, I can be your Goo Goo Dolls."

“You can be my what, I’m sorry?”

“Brain damage, that’s no good.”

Louis opens his mouth to cut the boy off, but a voice blaring in the hall beats him to it.

“Harry!”

Glad about not being the source of concern of some teacher, he scoots down for his glasses, but they’re being hastily pushed into his hand before he can even reach the ground. They’re wet, just like the boy’s skin. Just in time to see the last of Harry’s blurred face, Louis straightens back up, his gaze following the boy as he starts jogging away and repeating ‘sorry’s.

He disappears behind the corner, leaving Louis completely dumbstruck.

In all fairness, that was definitely not something that happens to Louis on a daily basis. He _does_ get knocked down, but rarely by accident.

He doesn’t give it too much thought, though, looking around until he spots an elevator.

 

**February the 6th, 2018, Tuesday**

 

The elevator's door slides back open before it can properly close.

A girl hurries into the space next to Louis, her hand keeping the front of her short white skirt in place. She must have been running for quite a while as her breaths are shallow, a thin layer of sweat glistens on her neck, and her long ponytail—ending where her skin tight tank top and short, yellow jacket meet—seems to have been thrown over her shoulder in a rush.

Using a dainty finger with long, Barbie-pink nails, she pushes the button with number five and leans on the rail, legs not so elegantly crossed at ankles. Only when she seems to fully realise Louis' presence does she straighten up and try to pull a pose.

"What eye candy you are. Hi.” Her eyes scan him top to bottom with obvious interest. Her gaze stops where Louis' hand holds three bags of groceries. "I've never seen eyes like yours. Are you like a mutant or something?"

There we go again.

"Hi," Louis replies politely. He tries for a tone wholly different to what he is, which is totally unimpressed and uninterested. “No, I‘m not.”

Five floors, he can do this.

He loosens his grip on the bags, scolding himself with all the synonyms of the term ‘moron’ he knows. In his defense, he needed the other hand to switch songs on his phone.

"You live here?" The girl turns a bit, leaning her back on the mirrored wall. She bucks her hips forward, skirt riding up even higher and barely covering what it’s meant to cover, and crosses her arms over her chest. “If so, I might come and visit more often for the view itself.”

"I, uh." He wants to say yes, but there’s a slight chance that it could mean this won't be the first _and_ the last time he sees her. He considers putting the other earphone back in, but he figures that’d be borderline rude. He's been raised better than that. "No, just—You know. My f—Uhm. A friend of mine’s throwing a party."

"Bit too early for a party, don’t you think?" She tilts her head to the side and glances at the iPhone in her hand, the pony tail falling from her shoulder.

"Yeah, I kinda… You know, promised to help with decorations." Second floor. “Uhm. Do the—the heavy lifting, yeah.”

Why couldn’t God take his tongue instead of his brain cells?

"I mean, a guy like you would.” She eyes him again, this time more hungrily. “You’re stronger than you look. Martial arts? Acrobatics?”

 _Practicing my clown college audition._ “Something like that.”

For a second Louis wonders how people _do_ that. How they strip themselves of decency and basic boundaries, how they don’t show or feel bashfulness. Thank gods above, this girl isn’t trying any cheap pick up lines, or else he’d experience an episode of secondhand embarrassment.

“Listen, I...” Louis cast her a glance. “You’re very nice and pretty, but I—”

“Taken?” She cocks an overly filled in brow towards him.

“Sorta.” Fourth floor.

She clicks her tongue.

“But, honey, the secret’s in secrets. She doesn’t have to know.”

Thankfully, the elevator shakes and stops. The door slides opens, the bell not ringing beforehand. It’s been broken for ages, and nobody has seemed eager enough to take one for the team and fix it. Since he’s heard no complaints about it, though, it looks like nobody needs the elevator’s bell ringing to fulfill the meaning of their existence on this planet.

Louis can’t say he’s one to gripe.

The girl lets out an overdramatic sigh. She tugs on the string of Louis’ hoodie and like ten strings of his mental concept of personal space, and gives him a playful smile.

“Hope to see you again.”

She swings her hips exaggeratedly as she walks away, most probably trying to draw more of Louis’ attention.

Louis blinks a few times until the elevator slams the door shut. He starts watching numbers light up on his way to almost the top of the twenty-story building, letting out a slightly exasperated huff and rubbing his temple.

It’s been like this for a bit now. With the exception of this previous year, the only time he’d draw people’s attention to himself was when he’d stumble over his own feet in the middle of the school’s canteen or the pavement.

It’s become a problem, a problem that Louis has to deal with.

As far as Louis’ faith in humanity goes, he’s glad that people at school still don’t give a crap about him as long as he’s not standing on the podium of another contest. People at school usually don’t give a crap, and he’s one to call it an upside in his case.

On the nineteenth floor, Louis steps out of the elevator, mindlessly pulling on the cable of his earphones. Once they’re in his hand, he tucks them into the pocket of his jeans, his gaze wandering to the right. Next to the last door on the opposite end of the hall from Louis’, he spots Lottie sitting criss-cross on a big pink pillow.

“Good afternoon, Lou!” The girl darts her eyes away from the notebook she's holding on her lap, waving one hand with a pencil nestled between her fingers.

“Hi, Lots,” Louis welcomes her with a smile. “How’d the physics test go?”

“Perfect score.” She tilts her head up, beaming.

“That’s my girl. Anything else I can help you out with?”

“I’m fine for now.” Lottie goes back to her notebook, sketching something that Louis presumes is just another portrait of one of her friends or a family member. She’s gotten good at those. “Besides, my mom says that if I spend too much time with you, I’ll be just as much of a nerd.”

“Your mom knows how to hurt a guy.” Louis fixes the grip on the massive bags, hoping that Lottie doesn’t pay them much attention and cursing himself for not dividing them between both hands despite having the time to do so.

“I would have nothing against being as smart as you.”

Louis chuckles in response. “See, now that's the spirit. After all, I need an heir to the Tomlinson empire, yeah?”

“I’ll be glad to take over the world after you.” Lottie turns her head again to look at Louis and send him a smile. “Thank you again. You’re the best nerd ever.”

“I know.”

“Wasn’t... really a compliment?” She frowns, squinting her eyes. “‘Nerd’ is not a compliment, Louis.”

Louis clicks his tongue. “Have care in how you speak, young padawan, and do not forget who’s the one who taught you how to tie your shoes in six different ways.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, and Louis only grins, waving her goodbye.

He treats the knob with practiced carefulness, still conscious of the day he yanked the door with enough force to make one of the hinges and the knob fall off. Lessons of the day: Lottie can laugh like a goblin, broken door can be fixed in two minutes. He should probably write a book about fixing stuff that get broken when you still can’t comprehend that you can bench press a bus.

“I’m back!” Louis announces as soon as the door cracks open.

“ _...human trials. The side effects include insanity, split personality disorder, aggression..._ ”  

He leaves his shoes on the rack standing to the right from the entrance, then nudges the door shut with his feet and pads into the open living room.

Jay rises from the couch, mutes the TV, and places her cup on the coffee table.

“Thought I lost you, you’ve taken forever. Niall’s in your room.”

“Isn’t he always?”

Louis passes the built-in ironing board in the hall, then turns right into the kitchen as his aunt chooses the way through the living room. Having redistributed the bags into both hands in order to appear as if he struggles a little with them, he cautiously puts them onto the free space on the counter. He takes a few steps towards the fridge, and pulls out a small bottle of water from the door shelf.

“Go to Ni, I’ll take care of these,” says Jay, already opening one of the cloth bags.

“You sure?” Louis asks, having taken three sips and closed the fridge’s door.

“How many times are you gonna ask me this question? I can unpack groceries, honey, I’m thirty five, not handless. It’s enough you carry them all the way here.”

“That’s my job, miss. And pretty sure you’ll be loudly insisting on scrubbing the bathroom with a toothbrush when you’re ninety,” Louis snickers, squashing the empty bottle in his hand. He walks to the sink, swiftly skirting around his aunt, and opens the cupboard with a trash can inside it.

“And you won’t stop me, young man.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wouldn’t even dare. I’m not strong enough.”

“Damn right.”

Having thrown out the empty bottle, Louis shuts the door and straightens up.

Jay turns to him and ruffles his hair. “Gotta cut that nest of yours.”

“No time. Maybe later.”

“What’s taken you so long?”

Louis gives her a crooked smile, his hand instinctively wandering to the bruised hip. “Distractions. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re all I have, sweetheart, don’t make me worried like that, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Love you.”

He kisses her cheek and he heads out of the kitchen to get rid off the jacket. Once he’s taken out his phone and earphones, he walks down the hall again, passes the bathroom at the end of it, turns right to the small corridor, and pushes the knob of one of the two doors.

He steps into his bedroom, shrugging off his hoodie while making sure his long sleeve still covers his hands up to his fingertips.

“Hey, man,” he greets Niall sitting on his bunk bed. “How long have—” The door closes behind Louis with a quiet click, his body now frozen, eyes dropping to his friend's hands. “Okay. This is not what it seems like.”

Niall looks up.

“You better have a good explanation for this.”

He nods at his property clutched in his friend's fingers, desperately trying to look casual despite the tight grip he now has on his hoodie and his heart getting more and more bent on the idea of thudding out of in his ribcage and running away. He can’t blame it, he’d be running away from his stupidity, too.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“What if I only have a vaguely passable explanation? Picture this—clones.”

 

**February the 8th, Thursday**

 

“So no sexy times with Spider-Man?” Niall frowns.

Louis blinks at him a few times. It had been easier to throw Niall off the scent than he thought it’d be. Shoutout to Niall’s brain only connecting the dots when it comes to computing and engineering.

“No, Niall,” he confirms, somewhat still suspicious that maybe his friend is taking the piss and already has Louis figured out.

“You sure? Sure, _sure_?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. I would... know if there was someone trying to get me naked.”

“You don’t have to get nakey to—”

“No.”

“And _there_ I was thinking that you finally were cool enough to hang out with in public. But you should, in my unbiased opinion. The biased one is you giving me his number so I could do what you cannot do, and what you _cannot_ do is boil water.”

Niall slumps on the locker next to Louis’, his shoulder hitting the metal with a loud thump.

He’s sucking on a lollipop he must have picked from the pile of candies he’s got stashed in his own locker. His hair is a total mess, but the ever present smile dances on the corners of his lips. Louis’ long study on Niall's sleepy eyes tells him that his friend slept around two hours last night, but that’s the price one pays for obsessing over breaking the Pentagon’s security code and being a book addict not fond of reading during the daytime.

“I should do what, exactly? Beside buying you a new kettle.”

“Hook up with Spidey, of course.” Niall looks at him like he just asked about the color of the sky.

“I feel like I preferred the part of your speech where you called me out on being a cooking imbecile. Go on, that’s the sort an insult I can take like caffeine—in sizeable doses and no long-lasting effect.”

As if prompted by the words only, he yawns, covering his mouth with his forearm.

His night also wasn’t entirely restful. Balancing MSST with a social life and protecting the city of New York really wears a guy out. The scuffle he had with a group of muggers last night resulted in him hitting the edge of a big dumpster and a big bruise on his back aren’t helping anything either.

In hindsight, basing his fighting skills on the marathon of the Karate Kid movies wasn’t a good idea.

“No neeh ho ‘ahe ‘he o’vious,” Niall continues, his words muffled by the lollipop. “Huh ol’ is ‘e? Is it a he?”

Louis hesitates for a few seconds. “He’s around our age, yeah.”

“Cool!” Niall pulls the candy out of his mouth with a pop, eyebrows arching as his eyes quirk up with cheer. “You should—”

“ _Niall_ .” Louis lowers his voice, teeth clenched. The hall's getting pretty crowded and he doesn't need anyone to know about his friend's twisted ideas. “I’m not gonna—Why are we even _talking_ about this, Jesus Christ.”

He throws a workbook into his backpack, slips the straps on his back, and finally looks at Niall who’s just standing there with his eyes glued to the lollipop.

“Okay, screw you. Maybe _I_ should, then, if you’re not gonna take that sweet opportunity. Can I meet him? Just imagine…”

Led by the sixth sense, Louis steers his eyes towards the sudden movement over his shoulder. He extends his hand, bending a little in the waist as his fingers grasp a heated paper cup, and uses the other arm to support the girl who's presumably tripped over her own feet - the two movements complete in the blink of an eye.

“Careful.” He flashes a little smile.

He straightens up, the student following suit. The girl stares at him, clearly startled, as he hands her the still full cup of coffee. A drop or two spilled to the ground, but besides that, he nailed it.

“There you go. Enjoy your drink.”

“Thanks,” she stutters, bringing the cup closer to her chest.

He only gives her another smile and wishes a good day as she starts walking away. He watches her blend into the now quickly growing crowd of students until Niall places a hand his shoulder.

“And that,” Niall says, packing the half eaten lollipop back in his mouth, “is why you never bring a raw starfish to Starbucks, no matter how pretty the barista is. It’s just common sense.”

 

 

If a year ago someone told Louis they don't like school bells he would have probably considered asking them to book a visit in a psychology centre. Scratch that—he wouldn't have said a word. He's been raised better than calling someone out for their preferences.

He’s also an insecure piece of crap, but that’s not the crux of the matter for now. It’s irrelevant. For now.

The point is, Louis really freaking hates school bells.

Hence why when they go off and signal the end of the eighth period, he flinches, bringing up at least one hand to cover his ear. Rolling his eyes, he remembers that there is still one little thing that is stopping him from escaping around the corner to fit into the blue and red suit.

In retrospect, agreeing to take pictures for Mid-News wasn’t the best decision Louis has made in his life. It wasn’t even the second best decision, or a good decision whatsoever. Nodding yes to the question about his interest in photography was one of the dumbest things he’s ever done, and he once took Calvin out to the cinema very much aware of the fact that Calvin’s inability to watch a film in silence and cinema audiences don’t go well together.

Let's just say that Louis and decisions have been in a long-term toxic relationship where Louis' the one always waiting at home for answers and the decisions are the drunk asshole coming and going, and making him do things that don't bring anything to the party.

The halls are emptying—most of the students rush to their lockers where they throw in or pull out necessities, and take sips of water or juice, some are making out against the walls like the world around them doesn't exist. There’s a drone buzzing under the ceiling that nobody spares a second glance at. There are people walking with piles of books, with posters, with canvas or neutron models. They might be all different when it comes to interests, but they sure as hell have one thing in common: the urge to get out of the building as soon as the godforsaken bells ring.

That is, with some exceptions—those set by accident, and those set by obligations.

As a brought-that-on-himself victim of the latter, Louis crosses another hall, his arm protectively clutching an envelope to his chest out of habit.

“Skatepark today?” Niall appears at his side, his nose tucked into the backpack that he’s holding in front of him. He tugs on a pair of headphones, the cable apparently tangled in whatever wonders Niall’s carrying in the bag.

“I’m yet to understand why you ask me that question since you don’t skate, Ni,” Louis remarks.

“Yeah, but you do.” Niall drops the backpack on the floor. “I’m there to watch. We all do what we can do best, you know. Even if it’s just burning my kettle.”

They stop to let Niall finish pulling out his headphones. It requires unearthing two books, a bottle of water, and two shirts in the process, but he manages. Louis doesn't even ask why he's got those shirts. He's learned not to question this kind of things after an incident several years ago when Niall—completely out of the blue—pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket in the middle of the canteen.

“Methinks it’s about time you admitted you’re not watching _me,_ ” Louis points out as he observes his friend pushing the scattered objects back into his bag.

“Hey, hey, easy there, I _do_ happen to spare a glance or two towards you from time to time, don’t underestimate me.” Niall points his headphones at Louis, and puts the backpack on.

“That’s some number-one-fan vibe you’re giving off here.” Louis snorts and continues his walk towards classroom number twenty eight, his friend catching up two seconds later. “I’m truly honored, I’ve never felt so validated in my life, counting in the time I won the battle with the rest of the sperm seventeen years ago.”

“Don’t ever say the word sperm again, I'm begging you. And let’s be honest, we can afford it after all these lies today. I _do_ like your skating, but the ladies at the park have more appeal than you falling flat on your face for the fifth time in a row.”

“Maybe you should, like, I don't know, consider chattin’ them up instead of just blatant staring,” Louis suggests, ignoring the comment. “Just a small tip from a friend. That’ll be five bucks. I accept cash and PayPal.”

“It’s not blatant staring, it’s called tactics, you romantic retard.” Niall plugs the headphones into his phone and turns on the screen. “High time you did, too, by the way. The skatepark isn't short of guys.”

Louis bites on the inside of his cheek. “No time.”

Niall sighs dramatically, still smiling.

“Swear to God, you’re gonna bail on your future hubby in the middle of your wedding vows, running down the aisle and screaming, ‘gotta go, Stark needs me to shave his balls’.”

“That’s disgusting, thank you.”

“If you n’ Stark are on such good terms, why won’t you ask for a few days off?”

“‘Cause I don’t want days off.” Louis stops in front of the door and reaches for the knob. “Gotta—”

“Gotta impress Mister Stark,” Niall mocks him, rolling his eyes. “Uh-huh, heard that one before. I just don’t see why feel the need to impress anyone, Tommo? You’re the best they can get, it’s a fact. It’s on Wikipedia. That’s how you know it’s a fact.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean, but I just…” Louis tightens his grip on the doorknob, his teeth catching on his lower lip involuntarily. “I really wanna do the best I can, you know me.”

“Whatever, dude, you know I support that ass of yours no matter what.” Niall scoots a little, gives his friend’s butt a smack, and starts jogging backwards. “Later!”

Louis doesn’t even yelp, used to his friend's antics. He only nods in response and faces the door.

Before opening the classroom’s door, he turns reflexively to catch the speeding basketball, even though he theoretically shouldn’t. He looks up, unsurprised at the individual responsible. He sighs and bounces the ball once, not taking his eyes off the tall boy standing a couple of feet away.

“Seriously?”

Nick throws his hands up with a stupid, menacing expression on his face.

“You’re too easy to mess with, I can’t help it.”

“And easy to miss, apparently.” Tempering the force of the throw, Louis returns the ball to Nick. He swallows, fighting to keep his voice low and stern, and failing once he speaks up again and he breaks a little. “Or is it just that the size of your ego blocks out your eyesight?”

Without giving Nick the opportunity to come up with a retort, Louis skids into the classroom. The dull thud of a ball thrown too late echoes against the door. He’s more than used to Nick’s shenanigans at this point, but it doesn’t mean he’s fine with them. He’s just glad that the physical violence in Midtown High isn't much of an issue.

Once he enters the room, he picks up on the fact that there are more people in there than normally. Someone has chosen to sit in one of the front desks, something rather unheard of during both lesson time and during extracurricular activities. Louis doesn't even spare a glance at the newbie as he walks straight towards Liam.

If he’s ignoring the club members, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that he doesn’t like them. Which, alright, that classifies as personal. The MidNews club consists of Liam and two envious of Louis nerds that jerk off to posters of Luke Skywalker in suspiciously clean toilet stalls of Midtown High. To put it simply, his one-time choice to change in the boys bathroom after classes doesn't belong on the list of his greatest memories. They could have at least closed the door. But they didn't. What they did, though, was give Louis two morning wood-free weeks and two days of fast.

Louis was thrown into the bunch after one of the teachers realized that Louis was good in something that wasn’t just science. He really shouldn’t have applied for that photography contest he didn’t even win.

He greets Liam with a smile.

“Stood there and breathed in that sweat for you, sugar. Ten shots, _come promesso_.” He places the envelope in his friend’s hands. “I still don’t get why you need the physical copy.”

“I still don’t get why you think it’s funny to use a language I don’t understand.” Liam starts shuffling through the colourful large format pictures. Each of the shots may have only taken Louis a few minutes to touch up, a skill gained through the years, but it hurts to just give them away all the same.

“It’s not funny, it’s unnerving,” Louis corrects. “You look like a huffing rabbit when you're stressed, it's adorable. And you're just jealous I learned Italian when you were flopping around in diapers.”

“Of course it has absolutely nothing to do with your childhood spent watching Italian soap operas with your aunt.”

“Bite me. I didn’t know there were rules as to how I should learn a language.”

“Whatever.” Liam squints at one particularly good shot of one of the contestants at some forgettable thing that happened two days ago. “All the triathlons you could photograph. Ben’s alright, but you're just irreplaceable.”

“You know I can’t.” Louis grimaces. _'Ben’s_ _alright’ my ass._

Louis’ better at flirting than Ben at photography, and that’s saying a lot considering that Louis once scared a girl off with his flirting skills.

“No, I get it, you gotta stay in New York. You take care of your future, golden boy, don’t worry your big head about that. And tell Ni to swing by my house today, yeah?” Liam puts the pictures back into the envelope and drops in on the teacher's desk. “Got a thing for him.”

Louis’ lips widen in a grin. “That you sure do.”

“You still on it?” Liam rolls his eyes, but there’s a slight tinge of pink appearing on his cheeks.

“Li, baby, it’s _you_ who’s still on it,” Louis half whispers not wanting to attract attention and smiles encouragingly. “Ask him out, he doesn’t bite. He’s also in a desperate need of someone who’ll snap him out of the staring habit.”

He’s been trying not to get involved in it, he really has, but it's been over a year and Liam hasn’t gotten his shit together.

“You know my—”

“That's the guy!” a voice cuts Liam off. “I would know that face! I know that face, and I know that foot!”

Louis’ head snaps up. He’d lie if he said it comes as a surprise that the source of the exclamation is nobody else but the kid sitting in one of the front desks.

The boy's vaguely familiar face shines bright with joy, his lips widened into a grin.

It takes Louis a couple of seconds to comprehend what the stranger just said to him and realise who he is. And when it finally clicks, he reciprocates the smile in earnest.

“ _Robots_ , two thousand and five? Classic.”

Harry gasps. “He got the reference, we're keepin' him.”

“We?”

“Me and the voices, of course.”

“The v—Okay.” Louis doesn’t know whether to laugh or frown, so he settles for the simplest, more reasonable choice—he takes a few steps forward, holding his hand out. “Honestly, the odds? Haven’t thought I’d meet the guy who knocked me out big time again. Since we’re at it, I really would rather avoid being a repeat of that action. I had one horrible backache after the last time you decided to use me as a landing airbag.”

There’s more than a backache to the story of the day they first met, but that’s a tale for Louis to keep.

“I’ll do my best, but no promises. You’re one of a snuggly-looking pillow.” The boy accepts the gesture and locks his gaze with Louis’, his smile fading a bit as something odd takes over his face.

Louis knows they’re shaking hands for a bit longer than it may be socially acceptable, but he doesn’t mind. Not when the boy is looking at him like _this_. He’s got green eyes, something quite uncommon, and his hand is just as he remembers it to be. Louis’ also fully aware that they're probably making quite a scene, but it's not like he cares. He’s happy to let the nerds watch something other than Star Wars updates.

“Harry, is that right?” he asks, finally loosening his grip, his eyes dropping to full lips.

Great. A pretty boy to mess with his head on daily basis, as if he didn’t already have sensory overload.

“How d—Oh, yeah, Miss Thompson.” Harry rolls his eyes and tucks his hands between his legs. He tilts his head to the side, one curl falling out of its place. “You remembered.”

Harry’s voice is sweet and low, and Louis allows himself to have a decent number of seconds of admiration, because, without a doubt, there is a lot to admire.

Last time Louis saw him, which wasn’t even that long ago, he was a gangly teenager with unruly, ridiculous curls, that Louis remembers to have found cute. Now that they’re chin-length and are pulled back by a red head scarf that matches the black and red checkered button up, they add at least a year or two to Harry’s actual age, which is probably same as Louis. His legs are wrapped in black skinnies ripped at the knee, and as he's swinging his feet back and forth it doesn't escape Louis’ notice that the red Converse shoes of his have surely seen some better days.

Just like the words on his tongue, Harry’s eyes are working slowly as he lazily blinks a few times, as if he had all the time in the world. In contrast, his green irises are sparkling and vigilant, peeking at Louis with interest, adding another side to Harry’s nature. The crinkles seem to be permanently sculpted into the soft skin at the corners of his eyes, at hint at a life not lacking in smiles. His lips are full, the cherry-colored plush swell contrasts with his milky flesh, which would probably look ridiculous on anyone else, but not on Harry.

With his feet turned inward, dangling back and forth unevenly, he’s more reminiscent of a teenage girl or a kid on a swing than a seventeen-year-old high schooler trying to look cool. Nonetheless, there’s an odd, well disguised strength in him that allows him give off something not quite opposite, but far from a-damsel-in-distress vibes.

Harry is pretty. Not like handsome, good-looking, no. Pretty. Pretty and waiting for Louis to talk.

“It’s just good memory, one of my many talents,” says Louis finally, darting his eyes away from the boy’s lips. “Not to mention it’d be a crime to forget such a sweet smile, and I don’t plan on graduating high school from behind Queens Detention Facility’s fence.”

Harry grins. “Definitely wouldn’t like to see that face through bars.”

“That makes two of us. The name’s Louis, but you can call me anywhere. Anytime. Crap. That’s the best you’ll get out of me in the terms of flirting, sorry to disappoint.”

Maybe it’s Harry's aura, maybe it’s his lips, maybe it's Maybelline, but Louis finds himself feeling very comfortable. It’s quite newsworthy as he's never been open towards people he’s just met, usually becoming socially awkward. This time though, Louis does his best to shrug off the self-consciousness, because in his experience it’s not the best way to make friends, and lord knows he does want to be friends with Harry. Maybe not close friends, but hearing the boy’s voice from time to time would be nice.

Harry doesn’t seem to mind the crapload of nonsense.

“Nice to meet you, Louis.”

Silence takes over, but Louis is utterly fine with them gazing into each other’s eyes. Maybe that way he won’t embarrass himself.

He catches the looks that the two nameless nerds have had stuck on him, speaking in volumes the disbelief they're in. He's not that upset about it. He, too, is astonished by the fact that he can muster up full sentence and articulate it towards someone else but Niall and Liam.

“You two, like, done? Are you done? I have a meeting to run, you can take it out of this room.” Liam appears by Louis’ side, bursting the harryandlouis bubble.

Quite content with the distraction, Louis puts his arm around his friend’s shoulders, giving his muscular arm a little squeeze, and makes a theatrical whisper-like gesture to Harry.

“Quick FYI, Liam doesn’t like spoons. Make sure you have one if you don’t want him to bother you.”

“You suck at keeping secrets.” Liam shoves him away. “Get out of my meeting.”

“It’s not a secret if it’s in your bio on Instagram,” Louis remarks.

“It’s there because you hacked my account.”

“Gotta break it to you, you need to get better than ‘iloveniallhoran’.”

“Bye-bye.”

“Our conversation is over ‘cause I’ve officially ran out of things I can annoy you with, so let me ask this one: why are you joining the club literally three months away from graduation?” He turns his attention back to Harry.

“I moved to Queens a couple of days ago,” Harry explains, apparently enjoying the exchange between the boys. “I’ve been here for like four days.”

“Well, then, welcome in our humble yet high-rated high school for the above-the-norm brains. How’s it been so far, Curly?” Louis straightens up and fixes the straps of his backpack. His thoughts are already trailing off to the suit stashed into its inner pocket, the oversized sweater and stone washed, ripped on the knees jeans almost itching.

“I hoped for more of a Hogwarts-like vibe, but I can do with yellow walls and no Dementors.” Harry nods his head still not taking his eyes off Louis. He doesn’t make a comment about the nickname, apparently accepting it right away.

“Considering the demeanor of our psychologist, I must disagree with that statement. Now, I’d love to stay and fail at flirting some more but duty calls. It’s been nice meeting you again.” Louis salutes and walks away, waving a hand at Harry’s ‘you, too’.

It doesn’t matter when all he can think of while jumping over the thirteen foot tall fence is Harry’s sweet, deep voice. Because it doesn’t. It’s just another pretty face in Midtown High.

 

**February the 10th, Saturday**

 

Here’s the thing about heroes—people _love_ them. Chant them, line up for them, scream their names, wear their merch, buy their posters, write theme songs, and print their faces on cereal.

Louis’ one proud owner of three pairs of Iron Man boxer briefs. There’s nothing better than a superhero covering your junk.

“Dad, that spider thing has my cat!”

Louis hands the writhing cat to the little girl, allowing himself to breathe out a sigh of relief. The little shit was walking on thin ice. Louis was close to webbing its paws up. Who even walks a cat at four in the morning? New York, that's who. Some of these days Louis will finally admit that New York is the answer to every questions ever asked.

“I'm more of a dog person, anyways,” he mutters under his breath, waving a hand and taking a running leap before he gets called an animal thief or something more creative like courge, plague, or nuisance.

He bounces off a park bench and springs off into the darkness of early morning, shooting web to catch on the nearest building.

“Should’ve stuck with wrestling,” he huffs, swinging his way to the closest skyscraper.

As far as his pride goes, his first nights after he’d discovered what he was capable of—in retrospect—weren’t the most glorious moments of his life. Spent in a ring grappling with some of the strongest wrestlers of the month, and then fighting for the money the club’s owner was promising for the win, they will sure as hell always avoid his resume. It took a good amount of beating steroid-fueled men for him to realise that he was never going to get any money. He was a pay-free entertainment. A monkey behind bars.

Months went by, stuff happened, priorities changed, and now he’s misunderstood by the police, but beloved by geeks and teenagers. The reactions from old ladies have always been rather mixed and unclear, but more often than not, they like having their groceries carried. A new video of Spider-Man swinging from buildings or stopping a thief’s car is uploaded onto YouTube or Twitter almost every day.

And Tony Stark happened. Realistically, Louis should have seen it coming. Stay off the radar of the man who has eyes on everything? He’d sooner fly than manage to attain that unattainable skill.

His excitement at the meeting had quickly segued into worry about Tony Stark’s stomach when it turned out that he was in the apartment with the purpose of discussing a recruitment offer. Louis was ready to refuse, but the new badass suit and a promise of someone looking out for him won him over. He’s a fool, but not that much of a fool.

Under the cover of an internship, he was let into the Stark Tower and the Research & Development department where he spent a whole day wandering among the best scientists in the world, asking hundreds of questions that earned him wide-eyed looks of bewilderment, and snooping around the laboratories.

Then he was driven home and told to not do anything stupid. Which, well, technically unrealistic.

Next thing he knew he was swinging his ass around the city in a Stark Tech suit.

Flash-forward: it’s a cold morning of a Saturday in February, ten months after he first and last met Tony Stark in person. Location: roof of 432 Park Avenue, Manhattan. Bodycount: that one bird from Brooklyn Avenue. Achievements: two men trying to break into a jewellery store, an old lady walked home home because one a-hole broke her cane, two trucks in a web for the ever so wonderful police, and a cat rescued off a tree.

He hums _We Will Rock You_ half-heartedly, removing the pellets from the web-shooters and changing them to new ones.

He sighs, carefully putting the empty containers into two of the eight clips sewn into the front part of his suit’s waist.

The rest of the song forgotten, he pulls his knees to his chest, and leans his body forward enough to keep himself perfectly balanced on his tiptoes at the very edge of the roof. With one quick move, he springs his body up and forward, does one flip and lets his body unfold, cutting through the chilly air. Around three quarters through the dive, he aims for the adjacent building, shoots, and hoist himself up on a web string.

The best part about being Spider-Man is getting to swing around, high in the air, and just take it all in. Before the memorable trip to Oscorp, Louis didn't think of New York as anything  other than the biggest city on the planet that the majority of Europeans wished to visit some day. Too high rent, too mean cops, too littered sidewalks—that was, and still is, New York City for Louis Tomlinson.

For Spider-Man, though? For Spider-Man, New York is every little light in every little window in every building. It's dirt and skyscrapers. It's alone times on random roofs, sensory overload, and a wheelbarrow of responsibility.

Once back on Queens Boulevard, he spins around a light pole twice and with a strong pull he thrusts his body up in the air, landing in the middle of his building.

He takes a few jumps up and he’s at the nineteenth floor, just by his window. Before sliding it open, he quickly glances into the room next to his making sure his aunt is sleeping, and then sneaks inside his bedroom.

He presses the spider head-shaped button on the middle of his chest for the suit to loosen up and fall away from his body, then tugs off the mask. He gives a quick look to the alarm clock on his bedside table—five twenty.

After stashing the suit into the inside pocket of his backpack, he slides under the duvet on the bottom bunk.

 

 

Saturday morning kicks off with a large cup of coffee, a bagel with double lox, and Niall munching his pancakes in front of Louis, caramel sauce dripping down his chin.

“Listen to that now. You listening? This is the sound of me not caring.”

Niall loudly slurps the rest of his hot chocolate, then slams the empty cup on the table. Louis observes as a single drop jumps out of the paper cup and lands on the wood. He’s sure that if he gave enough of a damn, he would have heard the soft ‘tap’ too.

“You’re the world’s worst friend, y’know?” Louis sighs, resting his elbows on the tabletop. The weight of his sleep deprived body seems to have increased since the moment he was woken up.

“I’m not the one to blame for your sleep deprivation, man.” Niall shrugs. He notices Louis’ glare stuck on his chin and, getting the wordless memo, wipes the sauce with a napkin. “Not my fault you haven’t got the hang of going to sleep in the evening, and getting up in the morning. Seems like you were busy reading Bruce Banner’s thesis while Jay was trying to teach you that one useful skill.”

Louis stares at the cleaned skin for a few more seconds, then looks up to meet Niall’s very alert gaze.

“But seven? _Seven_?” He rests the tips of his fingers on the thin skin of the bags under his eyes and tugs them down. “On Saturday?”

“It may sound like news to you but the sooner you get up, the more hours you have in a day.”

“No news, knucklehead, you say that at least once a day. And look what it costs me.” He points to the almost empty cup of coffee.

“You’ve been drinking coffee every morning for five years now.”

“Yeah, at _home_. And not at seven in the morning on Saturday.”

“Things change. Also, it’s already eight. It took me forty minutes to drag you out of your bedroom. It’s your record.” Niall points his fork at Louis. Despite his disapproving expression, there’s laughter dancing in his eyes.

“You are an apathetic, sleep-stealing leprechaun, and I hate you so much right now.”

Louis stuffs his mouth with a bite of his remaining bagel, and looks out the windows facing Queens Boulevard. He catches Paul Haggin’s smile as he drifts his eyes away to glance around, and reciprocates it. The owner may have a soft spot for Niall’s charm, but it’s his gratitude for Louis’ habit of cleaning up after himself that always wins the arguments between the boys as to which one of them is Paul’s favorite.

“Would ya look at that.” Niall tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on something behind Louis’ back. “I’d hit that.”

Still chewing, Louis angles his body to look at what triggered the gay side of Niall’s soul. As soon as his eyes land on the two familiar faces, he almost chokes on the mouthful of his bagel. His cough quickly draws the new clients’ attention to him.

He turns back to the table. “Shit.”

“What, you know ’em?” Niall looks back and forth from him to the two boys who have just entered the diner. “You didn’t say you know hot stuff. Who’s the worst friend now?”

Louis rolls his eyes in response, taking the coffee in his hand to wash down the stuck piece of bagel in his throat.

“It’s Harry, we—”

“Hey!” Niall cuts him off, almost making him choke again. “Harry! Get your ass over here!”

Louis puts the paper cup away, letting out the umpteenth sigh today. He watches Niall wave his hand at the newcomers. The feeling rolling in his stomach doesn’t have much to do with joy, he feels more terrified than happy to see Harry. What is he even scared of? It’s just Harry.

“Hi.”

It’s just… Harry with his cherry, plushy lips, wide smile, and a mess of curls hidden under a beanie, some of the strands poking out from under the hem. He’s wearing a two sizes too big, black, washed out sweater hanging from his shoulders, the front pooling over a belt that holds the black skinnies in place. The lazy Saturday look is capped off with black boots, which Louis barely notices, busy with taking in the uncovered, pale skin above the hem of Harry’s sweater.

Louis doesn’t know how much time passes until he finally answers with quiet ‘hello’ and switches his gaze to the boy standing next to Harry.

He swallows the anxiety growing in his throat, glad to see a familiar face.

“Hi, Zaynie,” he says as a vivid flashback threatens to crawl to the forefront of his mind.

“Tomlinson,” comes the reply, a hint of smug smile creeping in the corner of Zayn’s mouth.

“You two know each other?” Harry’s voice barely touches the back of Louis’ mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis notices Harry and Niall frowning, but his focus is currently set on _Thriller_ coming from the earphones hung over Zayn’s neck.

“Somebody didn’t get much sleep.” Zayn quirks a brow.

Louis studies him for a moment, dragging his gaze from the pale skin and sleepy hazel eyes to his clothing. Everything about Zayn is what makes the definition of the word attractive—from the slim, proportional frame of his body, through the lazily styled, but fashionable clothes, to the exotic lines of his facial features, more defined than the rest of the group’s due to failing twice in high school which Louis, of course, knows absolutely nothing about.

It’s not like he crawled into the Eastside High School’s database to track down the guy who smashed him against the lockers in an empty hall after Louis had won him over in the Annual Mathematics Competition. The smashing part wasn’t much fun, the fun part came twelve seconds afterwards.

Louis shakes his head and blinks.

“Wow, you like a doctor or something?” He cocks an eyebrow and meets the boy's stare in an effort to appear unaffected by his presence. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.”

His eyes drop to the black outlines on Zayn’s wrist. Somehow it escaped his attention during their first encounter. A lot of things escaped his attention during their first encounter, to be honest, his sanity evaporating from his brain included.

He points at the wrist with a nod. “Is that a Stitch tattoo that I’m seeing on your wrist?”

“Is that a problem that I sense in you, hon?”

“Is there something I’m missing, lovebirds?” Niall interjects, resting his chin on both hands, his eyes curious.

Zayn draws his hand out to him. “Zayn.”

Niall straightens up a little bit and accepts the gesture. “Niall.”

“You're not missing out on much. And we’re no lovebirds. Officially.” Zayn shoves his hands into the pockets of his grey trackies that shouldn't look good with the red turtleneck and light jean jacket, but they do. “Me and your friend met at a small contest. Does he win every competition he goes to?”

“It’s annoying, I know.”

Louis snorts. “Winning you over was child’s play.”

“Was it, now?” Zayn's lips quirk up as he gives him a meaningful look, tilting his chin up.

Louis almost blushes at the memory of Zayn pinning his body to the cold metal of lockers like a doll, like he was made to give out under the guy’s touch. He may not be a fan of one-time hook ups, but if it happened and, boy, the _way_ it happened, he wasn't one to complain.

“Uhm, _duh_. Don’t flatter yourself just because you managed to push me a bit.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be on top at some point.” Zayn suppresses another grin. “Wish I could see it.”

Louis only chuckles in response, stopping himself from saying something that would introduce even more double entendres into the conversation.

“Anyhoo.” Harry coughs into his fist, pulling the attention to himself. “Mind if we join you, guys? Zayn said they have pretty good food here and I feel like eating out today, so...”

“Only if you buy me another coffee,” says Louis, already patting the chair next to him. “I was forced out of bed at an ungodly hour,” he gives Niall a telling glare, then turns his head back to Harry with an exaggerated smile, “so if you provide me with caffeine I may consider the honour of sitting by my side valid and rightful in your case.”

Louis watches the two boys take their seats. Zayn moves swiftly and gets comfortable next to Niall who immediately flashes him a wide grin, and Harry plops into the chair by Louis’ side, his eyes wandering to the plate with only a bit of bagel remaining.

“It was seven,” Niall rolls his eyes after making sure that Zayn has been greeted with a proper fist bump. “You act like I dragged your ass out the bed in the middle of the night. You’ll live.”

“Not much of a day worth living, is it?” Louis tugs the bags under his eyes again to make a point. He really _does_ have some awful blue and grey shades under his eyes, it's not like he's being overdramatic. How else is he supposed to look when the hours of sleep he’s getting could be counted on one hand? Weekends are his time for sleeping in, and Niall doesn't seem to grasp it. “I look like a hobo,” he huffs. He slumps backwards, his spine hitting the hard wood of the chair. If it wasn’t for his quite high pain threshold, he’d have let out a hiss. “Or a zombie. Is there a word for a hobo zombie? Hombie?”

“Not a word.”

“No word is a word unless it's printed in a dictionary, smarty-pants.” Louis shifts his attention to Harry who’s still eyeing his piece of bagel. He elbows the boy's side. “Want the same thing, Harold? I promise it’s great.”

“It’s really not,” says Niall, digging his fork into his last pancake.

Louis give him a look. “I don’t recall about asking for your opinion.”

“I take it that you won’t change your usual order.”

“Bet your butt I won’t. So, Curly?” Louis tilts his head to look at Harry. “Coffee me, pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Have you just made a noun into a verb?” Harry leans back in his chair, legs spread out, and turns his head to Louis, playful grin widening his lips.

No help. No help at all.

Louis does his best to not look like he’s intently examining the three tiny hazel stains on the green of Harry’s irises. He doesn’t think it’s working well; he’s always worn his heart on both of his sleeves.

Harry locks his gaze with Louis’, a tiny smile dancing on his lips as he does so, and then it’s there again. That weird bubble when Louis’ aware of the world around them, but simultaneously he’s _not_. It’s like he knows the world exists, but he couldn’t care less if it’s real or not, because why would he, if Harry's right here, right now?

“How long do you think they can keep it up like that?” Niall’s voice quickly bursts the bubble.

Louis blinks and the noise of Saturday morning is back. Voices are echoing in his head again, and he puts part of his willpower back into stopping himself from overhearing. The irritating fly buzzes around the lollipop stand like it has since he spotted it as soon as he entered the diner. The fact that he didn’t even notice the world going quiet doesn't bode well.

“As long as it takes for you two to leave, how does that sound?” Louis turns his head to Niall. Both his friend and Zayn seem to have been watching him and Harry interact as if they were a spectacle in a zoo. “I can walk you to the door.”

The scary thing is, beside Niall, Louis’ never clicked like this with anyone he’d barely known, so excuse him if he feels intrigued by the odd current state of his life.

“You only just met, and you're already disgusting.” Niall sighs and stuffs his mouth with the last piece of his breakfast. The full mouth doesn't stop him from talking, though. “'S gon be wohse when you stah datin’.”

Louis grimaces at the mention of his utterly absent love life.

“It’s gonna be worse if you don't drop it.”

Niall swallows. “S’ hard to drop the topic of your love life when it’s as existent as polka dots unicorns.”

“And yet your mouth’s still runnin’.”

Louis doesn’t allow Niall to talk back, raising his hand and waving at Paul. He orders three more coffees and his usual for Harry without even asking if the boy wants it. If he doesn’t like it, Louis will cherish the meal himself. His super metabolism needs food. He gives Zayn a questioning look, but the boy shakes his head. Louis signals ‘that’s all’ to Paul, and turns his attention back to the table.

“You sent the application for the internship?” Zayn speaks up, rocking back on his chair legs with one hand gripping the tabletop, and the other rested on his lap, in a manner of someone who's done hundreds of times and perhaps doesn't mind flipping back and thudding his head on the floor. “The deadline’s up.”

“Internship?” Louis puts his arm around Harry’s chair, his interest aroused.

His fingers _itch_ to touch the boy's shoulder, almost fully exposed by the too-loose sweater, but lucky for him, he’s learned some self control. Nevermind the damage he did to the chair in his bedroom, the twelve broken pens, and six scrunched desks in classrooms that were the collateral in that process.

“Yeah.” Harry rubs his nose with a thumb, sending a long, stern glance at Zayn. A short sigh leaves his mouth before he continues, shrugging. “I wanna be a journalist, I like to write, so what’s a better place than _The_ _Daily_ _Bugle_ to start your career off with?”

“I don’t know.” Louis pretends to wonder, placing one finger on his chin. “Maybe any other paper that’s not the epitome of a trash tabloid with its writing consisting of half made up crap with some gossip, big pictures, and a smattering of facts interspersed? But hey, what do I know?”

“It does have more readers than the churches in New York have attendants. Even if you doubled them.”

Zayn barks out a laugh. “Just say you’ll do anything to tap Spidey’s ass and get over with it.”

“Huh?” Louis quirks an eyebrow at him, confounded.

“Harry wants an interview with Spider-Man,” Zayn explains and grins. “He’s got a huge-ass crush, like, self-made-posters-in-his-room level of a crush.”

“Mind zipping it?” Harry shoots him an annoyed look, but there's some pink already crawling on his cheeks.

“Honestly, man, what if he’s like, dunno, twenty-five and married?” Zayn settles his chair with all four legs on the ground and leans forward.

“He's not,” Niall slyly remarks.

Louis’ focus suddenly is fully on his idiot friend. _Shut_ _up_ , he tries to tell him with his glare, but Niall isn't even looking at him.

“How do you know?” Zayn tilts his head, visibly interested in the answer.

 _Don't_.

“Tommo knows Spider-Man. He told me.” Niall beams, still not paying attention to his friend.

Louis almost chokes on his own spit. The feeling of warmth he felt in his blood after hot coffee suddenly abandons his veins, and he’s pretty sure his brain pours out through his ears. After the initial shock, he quickly shakes his head, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“No, I mean—”

“They’re like close buddies.” Niall digs the hole even deeper.

Just like that, Saturday morning kicks off with a half finished cup of coffee and a few bites of a bagel churning in Louis’ stomach as he strides out of the diner, leaving behind nothing but a few dollars on the table and a bad impression.

 

**February the 11th, Sunday**

 

"Hey! Let's be social.”

"Hi, let's not." Louis chews on the tip of his hoodie's string, rereading the formula on the one-sided holoscreen in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Niall slump into the armchair, legs wide open and head leaned on the backrest. He looks like he’s only just woken up, and the first thing he did was to pay Louis a Sunday morning visit, which is a very probable scenario—Niall tends to show up in his apartment in the weirdest ways, from padding into his bedroom in his pyjamas at six am to barging into the toilet when Louis is in the middle of having a wee to show him a cat he found in a parking lot.

“Gwen Stacy’s having a party on Wednesday,” Niall murmurs sleepily. “Let’s get social.”

“I'm busy on Wednesday.”

Louis doesn't take his eyes off the hologram. He makes another calculation in his head, and taps the lights in the shapes of numbers and letters. Poking air still weirds him out a little, but considering the fact that he climbs walls through the courtesy of adhesive skin, he probably isn’t one to decide what’s weird or not.

"The ionization probability in unit time..."

"...can only be calculated via quantum physics, lordy, you and your off-the-charts brains. What could possibly be keeping you occupied on Wednesday?"

"Absolutely everything and anything that doesn't require going to a party.”

Louis carefully fixes his position on the couch so the device won't fall off his chest. He hears his spine crack a little, the unpleasant result of his fall from a dissolving web hammock he fixed up for himself between two buildings the night before. If it's the very reason why he's working on an improvement to the web fluid, he’s not going to admit it aloud.

He taps in a few more calculations, then the ‘initialise’ command, and watches as the lines of equations start to blend and create an illustration of a chemical formula. He uses the backs of both hands to rub his eyes. He really should have slept instead of pulling a full all-nighter, but a certain someone made it impossible. Sleep has never come easy to him, and the more distractions and heavy thoughts, the worse for him.

“Can’t believe you choose wanking over a party.”

“Highlight the atoms." Louis frowns and observes the lines transform into shapes. “I’m trying to ignore you, so feel ignored.”

"Oh, come ooon, Tommo," Niall whines, stretching out one of his legs to tap Louis' feet with his shoe. "It will be fun.”

"Yeah, I don’t think so." Content with results, Louis scribbles 'web 3.0 beta' over the formula, minimizes it, and packs into a new folder. One click sends it automatically to Tony's email box. “Last time you said that, we ended up watching _Inception_ high on pot brownies you stole from Calvin, and attempting fights with sock puppets ‘cause you dared to suggest that Tom Hardy was hotter than Ryan Reynolds.”

“I still have no idea what fuck the movie was about.”

“I don’t think the actors even do.”

“ _And_ I still think Hardy’s hotter than Reynolds.”

“Free country means you can have a wrong opinion.”

"Anyways.” Niall slides down the armchair and plops down on the floor, letting out a quiet 'ouch'. "Like I know that the only party you've been to was the pity party you threw when you were thirteen and didn't understand how the gamma decay equation worked, as if that was something normal for a thirteen-year-old, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go out more.”

"And what of it? It's worked out pretty well so far. And I got that equation on the third try, unlike _someone_."

"Excuse me that I’m not as much of a Bruce Almighty as you, jeez. Also, I don't necessarily see this ‘working out well’ thing here.” The boy makes quote marks in the air with his fingers.  “You've alienated yourself, man. I’m getting worried."

"Thank you for you diagnosis, Doctor Horan, nobody needed it." Louis closes the screen with simple gesture. "See, I’ve got friends and social life."

"You’ve got only me and Li,” Niall points out. He lifts his legs lazily and plops them on the coffee table. Louis doesn't even bother with making a comment about that. He gave up years ago. “Maybe Cal and Stan.”

“Which is why I used plural. The term plural? Ringing any bells?”

“What's the social life you have, then? I don’t think you remember Calvin’s voice at this point.”

Louis pulls himself up to sitting position on the couch. He makes sure the device is locked, then slides it into the pocket of his trackies, looking at his friend.

“Pretty sure I talked to Calvin last week at the skatepark,” he says.

Niall’s brows shoot up. “You didn't even _go_ to the skatepark last week. You said you would but never showed up.”

Didn't he? Perhaps. Chances are there happened to be a disturbance in the form of Louis’ need to slide into a onesie and take care of more important matters than putting his board to use.

And okay, maybe he doesn't remember the last time he talked to Calvin, but that doesn't mean anything. Especially not that he's alienated himself. After all, Calvin is just some nice guy from Niall’s block who happens to challenge Louis sometimes and lose every time it happens because Louis might be not be a fan of using his powers in public but when the prize of the bet is a cup of coffee from _Haggin’s_ , then, well. It’s free coffee, come on.

"Alright, alright, enough.” His voice goes unintentionally harsh. He blames it on the lack sleep. “Is this an intervention or somethin’? Are we in _NCIS_? Hidden cameras?” He squints his eyes at Niall. “See, being alone is fun. You know what I did yesterday evening after I’d left the diner?” He quirks one eyebrow at his friend. “You don't 'cause I was alone, and you'll never know 'cause I won't tell ya."

Louis hoists himself up and jumps over the backrest of the couch with one swift move. He tries not to care about the twinge of guilt over the display of his powers, but it really doesn’t work, so he just groans, mentally adding it onto his Things To Feel Bad About And Lose Sleep Over pile.

He pads into the kitchen and aims for the cupboard. While one of his hands opens the wooden door and pulls out his favourite pink and white polka dotted mug, the other one wanders to the coffee machine to turn it on.

“Let's go that party.”

“I am not going to a party, Ni,” he says calmly, not letting his nerves take control for now. He pulls out the reservoir from the coffee machine and walks up to the sink.

"What in the—You’re so damn boring sometimes, I fucking swear, it’s like I’m friends with an old lady with a cat, and not the cool kind of an old lady. That kind of a lady that falls asleep while watching _Days of Our Lives_ , cooks only vanilla pudding, and hasn’t washed her feet since Ellen DeGeneres came out."

Louis patiently watches the stream of water fill the plastic container until it reaches the stop level. Unhurriedly, he returns to the coffee machine, clicking everything back in its place, checks the amount of coffee beans, and then presses a the espresso button. When the machine starts purring, Louis hops on the counter, steadying himself with feet stuck to the wooden front, and looks at his friend.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice laced with too much sugar for it to sound friendly, “but have you missed the part in the past twenty four hours where you kinda ruined my day?” So much for holding his anger on a leash.

Also, he may or may not be exaggerating.

Niall turns his head to glance at Louis, then reaches behind his back to grab a pillow from the armchair he's leaning on and tucks it under his neck.

“Ruined your day? In case you didn't notice, I did you a favor.”

Louis blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Trouble hearing now, grandma?” Niall makes himself comfortable, crossing arms on his chest and showing no sign of concern about his friends’ anger. “I just saved your life from living it as an everlasting single.”

“First of all, you _moron”,_ Louis takes a short exasperated breath, “I'm almost eighteen, which means I have a crapload of time to find myself a date. And secondly, weren’t you the one telling me I oughta stop assuming everyone’s gay?”

“Weren’t you the one telling me I should stop assuming everyone’s straight? He’s hot, smart, and already looking at you like you're the reason for his existence. Not to mention that your usual Socially Awkward With New People mode is suspiciously off when he's around. You turn into a mushy cupcake when you see him.” Niall throws his hands in the air. “Oh, come _on_ , Tommo-”

“He’s not—Wait, I—Wait a sec,” Louis cuts him off. “How’s—How _exactly_ is what you did yesterday supposed to help my love life?”

“Technically, it's supposed to make your love life _happen_. Y’know, you kinda don't have one now.”

Louis slides a hand down his face.

In moments like this he wonders how and why he became friends with Niall in the first place. Their bond is probably based more on a shared obsession with science and crush on Ryan Reynolds than brotherhood, but who says that brotherhood can't be born out of exchanging shirtless pictures of one of the hottest men alive at the age of eleven?

“Do you realise that Mister Stark _trusts_ me with that internship and everything related to it?” He reaches to the coffee machine, grabs his cup, and angles his arm to press the off button with his pinky. “I’m not allowed to talk about what happens within Stark Industries, and you're out there announcing to everyone that I'm friends with Spider-Man, _which_ , by the way, is technically a lie.”

“So you do hook up?”

It takes all of Louis’ patience to not throw the mug full of steaming coffee at his friend. “Have you listened to a word I said?”

“Yes, I have,” Niall replies with ease, as if he hasn’t been ignoring all of Louis’ arguments. “I still don't get why you're so pissy. I'm trying to set you up with a person you seem to be interested in, fucking finally, ‘cause kinda about time you did, and you’re making it seem like I committed a crime.”

“‘Cause I don't need your help with my life! _Especially_ with my love life. Even if it’s nonexistent. It's _my_ life and _my_ decision to be alone, don’t you get it? ‘Sides, I'm busy, I couldn’t be less bothered by the lack of a boyfriend. I don’t need another distraction in my life.”

“What you _are_ is full of shit.” Niall turns his head again to look his friend in the eye. “You could easily find a lot of time for me, a boyfriend, or maybe even for some proper sleep, but you _don't_ _want_ _to_. That’s a choice, not a must.”

“Okay, know what? You're absolutely right.” Louis slides down from the countertop, and starts approaching the couch. “I don’t want to. Excuse me that I choose to focus on my education and my future instead of hitting on a guy I met three days ago.”

“Two days ago.”

“Now this is the part where you shut up and listen,” Louis almost hisses, bracing himself on the backrest of the couch. “You're my friend, Niall, and I love you like a brother, but you did screw up.” He takes a short shallow breath to stop the tears stinging his eyes. “Nobody's a saint man, sure, you made a mistake, okay, but thanks to you I have to come up with an explanation as to why I’m not gonna ask Spider-Man for an interview with some kid. ‘Cause in case you didn’t know, he's not a car for rent and not a tool for you to fix somebody’s love life, so I hope you have at least an idea of what you got me into now.”

Niall looks at him with tired eyes, and suddenly Louis is hit with the realisation that his first thing to do in the morning was to dress down his friend. What a way to start a day.

Before either of the boys get another chance to speak, the front door opens almost soundlessly, and Aunt Jay steps into the apartment.

“Louis! I thought you would be sleeping,” she greets her nephew with a smile. Her shoulders are sagging, revealing the sheer exhaustion from a night shift. She spots Niall as he gets up from the floor. “Hi, Niall.”

“Mornin’, Jay.” Niall flashes the woman a grin, way too wide to be genuine.

“What are you boys doing up at six thirty?” She asks as she takes off her shoes and puts them on the shoe rack  “Actually, don't answer that, I don't wanna hear another story about breaking through the Pentagon’s security codes.”

“Nothin’ like that today, Jay,” Niall chuckles shoving his hands into the pockets of his pyjama pants.

 _Pyjamas_ . Louis didn’t even notice he was still wearing _pyjamas_. He's a horrible, horrible person.

“Ni brought me my biology book, I left it at his yesterday.” Louis shrugs and takes a sip from the steaming cup, grateful for the interruption. “He’s actually goin’ home now, right, Niall?”

Aunt Jay walks into the living room, and it doesn’t escape Louis’ notice that she’s not so sneakily trying to spot the biology book he bluffed about. Both he and his aunt know that it’s bullshit.

“Yeah, I’m... Yeah.” Niall starts padding across the room, Louis only now seeing that he’s in slippers, and when he’s at the door he turns and gives Louis one last look.

Then he’s out, the door closing behind him louder than after Aunt Jay. The sound echoes unpleasantly in Louis’ head.

“What was that about?” Jay asks, standing by Louis.

She takes Louis’ hands in hers and brings the cup closer to her lips. Louis lets her take a few sips of his coffee, even though he knows she should go to bed instead of packing caffeine in her blood. She’ll fall asleep anyways.

He turns his head to press a soft kiss on his Aunt’s cheek.

“Nothing, Jay,” he lies, his brows knitting and eyes fluttering shut as pain suddenly strikes through his head, his rapid healing refusing to work on overstimulated nerves.

 

**February the 12th, Monday**

 

Being Spider-Man has been a lonely trip full of headaches, bruises, and poor logistics when it comes to pee breaks. Really poor logistics. Including that one time when he most probably traumatized a kid in an alleyway in Manhattan.

In his defense, it wasn’t him who designed the suit that only comes off as unit, not in parts.

One of the worst things, though, is the solitude. The inability to talk to anyone.

And since there’s nobody to talk to he resorts to talking with himself on his way home as he’s taking short glances down streets and the narrow spaces between buildings, hopping over rooftops, and trying new acrobatics. There's something calming about the freedom and joy in the free falls and cutting through the chill of the night, eyes closed and mind trusting nothing but his senses, and it almost makes forget his worries.

Almost.

“This is really not a good idea, and you had a point,” he says during one of these talks as he  scales the wall of a skyscraper. “You were kind of a dick, but you did have a point. You can’t just be two people towards a guy who happens to be unfairly attractive… and this is where I stop talking because it’s not going where I thought I was going with it.”

The chill of a February night is barely suppressed by the heater in his suit. If he knew how, he’d lower the set temperature so that the cold could distract him from the drama of the last few days, and maybe keep him awake. His head has felt in danger of collapsing on itself at any moment due to thought overload ever since he stormed out of the diner. His initial anger has transformed into some mix of helplessness and shame, but that doesn't mean he's not still mad.

Louis’ life had been quite stable, thank you, until Harry showed up at Midtown High. Not only does he appear to be the first person towards whom Louis actually feels genuine, human attraction towards since, like, forever, but he also has managed to crash through Louis’ usual walls that protect him from new people. It's so easy to be around Harry that it's a bit scary, even though Louis’ spent not more than few minutes with the boy.

Louis’ the first one to admit—it was his fault that he had initially stashed the mask under a pillow, which led to the blowout at the diner. Had he been more careful and taken the whole suit instead of the web-shooters only, he wouldn’t have been cursing at himself for two days straight.

He’s got a point. He knows that he wouldn’t have been able to withstand the balancing act of lies that would have increased should both sides of his life come in contact with Harry.

He crawls up the pole at the very top of the building and looks down.

It took Louis an embarrassing amount of time to get used to scaling buildings higher than twenty floors, but as soon as he had passed the threshold, he cherished every moment he could, settling on the tallest skyscrapers found in New York and simply enjoying the view. From up there the city doesn’t seem as dirty as it actually is. If he focused hard enough, he could probably see the littered pavements and count motorcycles, but he prefers just watching the whole thing as one—thousands of living lights and everlasting noise.

With a deep sigh, Louis unsticks his fingers from the pole, then braces himself for the long dive and springs off the building.

Within a few minutes, he’s back in Queens, praying for the sweat running down his body to have drained his thoughts along with it leaving only exhaustion remaining. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t work this way, but nobody can stop him from trying.

His way home at almost four in the morning is free of crimes until he lands on the rooftop of a building on 69th Avenue and his sixth sense goes off. He glances around to find the source of danger, crouching at the edge of the block he peers down into the narrow alley. As predicted by the spider-sense, there’s several men cornering a smaller person, presumably a boy. The victim looks like he’s close to collapsing.

Soundlessly, Louis makes his way down the wall of the building. Only when he's levelled with the thugs does he leave his feet stuck to the slippery bricks, and straightens his body. Standing on walls at a right angle is one of his favorite tricks, because it looks cool, and it usually throws off the bad guys. One could think that New Yorkers would already be used to a dude in a skin tight suit sticking to walls, but the wide eyes of the criminals that Louis' met with say that it’s not yet the case.

"Hey, fellas!" he greets them cheerily while simultaneously shooting double webs from both of his wrists. After each string separately catches onto the four men perfectly, he sharply tugs them all backwards causing a hard landing on the ground. An accompaniment of 'ouch's and 'fuck's sounds in the alley as he steps into the mess of wriggling bodies. “No need for an applause. I’m here for the wet T-shirt contest. You still signing?”

"What the f—”

"Hey-hey, language!" Louis shuts the man up with a plaster of web. "You kiss your woman with that mouth? Young one is present, behave."

"Don't you have homework to do, squirt?" Another mugger asks, lifting himself up from the ground. The other guys follow suit.

"Or I can just do you?" Louis retorts with a slight shrug and lazily shoots a web up over his shoulder. He takes another step forward in order to stretch the string more. “That came out wrong.” He tugs the end of the web. "Pretty please hold it? Thanks."

Without waiting for any response, he hands out the web to the man who has walked closest to him and attaches its end to his wrist with a quick flick of his other hand and the barely-there click on the web-shooter.

The guy frowns. “What are you—”

Louis grins, watching the outstretched string rapidly pull the man up and forward, most  probably breaking his nose at the contact with the wall.

He hisses, screwing his face.

“Ouch, that’ll leave a mark. Sorry, pal. I’m sure it’ll heal. Don’t bill me.” He turns back to the rest of the muggers. "Anyone else up for mini bungee?"

Apparently all the three men are up for it, because without hesitation they leap forward with their fists raised ready for a fight, but all they're met with is air as Louis flips over their heads. He sneers at one of the guys losing his balance and receiving a free, self provided pavement facial.

“Look at you putting up a little fight. It’s cute. You good there, buddy?” he asks, remembering the victim of the whole situation, and turns around to check on the boy.

The boy is crouching at the base of  the wall with arms wrapped tightly around his torso and head ducked down. His hair is in a mess, most probably caused by one of the muggers grabbing hold of it. He’s trembling, but manages to look up at Louis, his face pinched with fear.

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

“Anything—Hey!” Louis clasps his hand on the wrist of the mugger who decided to attack him from behind. Almost nonchalantly, Louis turns his body, twisting the man’s arms in the process, constraints it behind his back, and webs it to the material of the worn out leather jacket. “Not fair,” he huffs and peeks at the boy over his shoulder. “Anything hurt?”

The boy shakes his head in response, tightening the hold he’s got on his own body.

“We're just havin' a friendly brawl here, dude,” another mugger grunts, walking up closer to the two boys. “No need to get your onesie in a twist.”

Louis puts his hands on his waist. Here’s how trying to be intimidating as a lithe dude in a red and blue suit works—doesn’t work at all.

"What does four grown up men beating up a teenager have to do with friendliness? I mean, one of you has a—" He yelps and dodges a bullet, letting it whizz past his head. "A gun. That'd be three out of ten, guys. One point for the matching hats, two for the effort."

Before any of the men can say another word, Louis shoots another round of webs into their chests and jumps over them all in order to drag the whole group away from the boy. Another string sweeps the muggers off of their feet, and a few seconds later all of them are webbed to a wall, wriggling and muttering curses.

“Next time y’all put yourself in such situation with an A-list superhero like myself, you might wanna think of gettin’ some gimmick.”

Louis gives the men a small wave of his hand, and then jogs back to where the boy hasn't moved from his sitting position. There's a lessening of tension in the arms tightened around his chest. He glances at the muggers, and then at Louis who crouches in front of him.

"Thanks," he mutters.

“No problem, bud.” Louis draws out his hand in order to help the boy stand up. He accepts the gesture and lets Louis slowly hoist him up. “Take it easy. What are you doing up at four, anyways? Don't kids sleep til five minutes before the bell rings?”

“Don’t kids sleep instead of swinging their ass around in spandex?” The boy replies as he brushes off the dirt from his black tracksuit.

"Point taken. No, hey. I’m a certified adult, young buck. For real, my friend printed me—Nevermind, what happened?"

He sighs shakily, and starts looking around with a frown. Then his eyes pause at the spot by the dumpster, and he takes the few steps towards there. Louis watches as he picks up an old, worn out backpack with something clattering around inside it, and slides it on his back after patting off the dirt.

"You mean those assholes or why I'm up late?" The boy asks, tightening the straps and fixing the backpack's position on his shoulders.

"Both is good." Louis tilts his head to the side.

In moments like this, when he's standing and talking, he wishes he had pockets in the suit. Because he doesn't, he settles for putting hands on his waist. One cocked hip and a slightly feminine physique don’t help his attempts to look intimidating, but he's well past worrying about it.

"Well, see, in the twenty first century mugging is still a thing. Not that you’d ever suffer from it to know." The boy shrugs nonchalantly, his tone signing that it's not the first time this kind of thing happened to him. His gaze wanders for a few seconds to the muggers stuck to the wall.

“I thought it’s become apparent by now that I’m one trying to stop this kind of thing from happening. It’s either me not trying hard enough or the _Bugle_ is getting on it well." Louis rubs the back of his neck, eyes following the boy who starts heading out of the alley. Giving a last glance to the muggers, he picks up the pace and lines up with him. "Anyhoo. Most kids your age stay home and play _Call of Duty_ up till the morning, so sorry if seein’ you here and now seems a bit odd to me. And you sure smell like aerosol paint. Have you been doing graffiti? That’s so cool. Makes me wish I could draw."

"You’re one talkative bug."

"It's Spider-Man. It’s an arachnid. I mean, a spider is, not me.”

"Sure it is.”

When they walk onto Queens Boulevard, Louis takes a couple of jumpy steps forward, and stops in front of the boy.

“You sure you're fine? Want me to walk you home?” he asks, studying his face and looking for any sign of serious injuries.

The guy salutes off and starts walking away, disappearing into the rare crowd.

“No need for babysitting, thanks.”

Louis waves him goodbye, and again wishes he had pockets to slide hands into so he wouldn't look so stupid when standing still in the middle of a pavement.

 

 

"There’s my favorite babysitter in Queens!" Sweet cooing sounds fill the cake shop before Louis manages to open the glass door properly. "What can I get for you, honey?"

Louis flashes a grin to the woman behind the counter.

"Whatever these demons wish for, Perrie."

Louis watches Phoebe and Daisy spring out from his the grip on their hands, and get to the cake displays, immediately flattening their palms on the glass and scanning for whatever would make their tummies happiest today.

As it turned out, there _was_ a need for babysitting.

After a scant two hours of sleep, Louis was woken up by Jay poking his shoulder at six thirty, and asking him to walk the Jones' kids to school. Normally, Louis would have opened his eyes up at seven and manage to take a quick shower before he’d have headed out onto  71st Avenue risking a cold with a few still damp strands of hair.

Walking Phoebe and Daisy to school, though, requires getting up half an hour earlier, mainly because of the time spent at Edward's Cake Shop that occupies most of their morning routine. Every time Louis is asked to take the kids to school, they stop at the shop so he can get them a little something-something. Having set the financial and size boundaries several years ago when the kids were still in kindergarten, he’s free to spend the ten to twenty minutes simply observing the girls trying to pick a treat for a day.

The owners of Edward’s are an older married couple, but for the last several years it's been their daughter Perrie who's been holding things down, occasionally in the company of her long-time girlfriend.

"S how have you been, Doll?" Perrie leans forward, propping her elbows on the counter. “You look pretty tired.”

She turns her head a bit and lifts one hand to the golden locks tucked in messy bun, and checks on the front part of her hair held back by a headband. When she's content that her hairstyle is being held in its place, she entwines her fingers on the countertop, and locks her gaze with Louis'.

The boy gives a quick thought to the messy past few days, and the people he'll undoubtedly have to confront today. The thought alone gives him anxiety.

"Could be worse." He shrugs, crossing arms on his chest. "And you? How's Jade?"

"Been alright, the usual.” She purses her lips. “We’re planning on moving in together, so we've been on the lookout for an apartment recently. It’s about time, huh?”

"Here in Queens?" Louis asks, checking on Phoebe and Daisy who have currently moved onto the stage of whispering the options between each other. “‘Cause you know it won’t be the same without you. My aunt will pass out if you move away, your cakes are the only ones she will accept for birthdays.”

"Not going anywhere, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it." Perrie smiles at him, but then immediately squints her eyes and starts studying his face. "What's eating at you?"

"It's—Well, I'd… I’d say it's nothing, but you'd call bullshit, wouldn't ya?" Louis cocks one eyebrow at the woman, and she nods in response. He lets out a small sigh, quickly filtering his thoughts so he can express his problems in a 'it’s really nothing’ manner. "Yeah, thought so.”

“You’re wearing—”

“—my heart on my sleeve, yeah, yeah. I don't really know.” He rubs the back of his head. “Had a fight with Niall, that's for starters, and it sucks.”

"What was it about?" Perrie tilts her head a bit to peek on the girls.

"Let's just say I don't like it when people invalidate my privacy." Louis follows her gaze and checks on the kids. “He disclosed something he wasn’t supposed to, and now I need to come up with a way to fix it.”

Phoebe seems to be trying to persuade her sister into something, Daisy’s head shaking vigorously in response. If it wasn't enough that the twins look almost completely identical, their characters are so similar that Louis has sometimes wondered if they don't share one brain. If it wasn't for his enhanced senses, he would have much more difficulty telling the difference between the girls, especially given that ‘who is who’ is their favourite game.

"I’m sorry."

Louis leans against the counter, shrugs, and slides hands into the pockets of his thick jean jacket.

"We'll be fine, as always."

"You two are like an old married couple, I swear."

Louis spots Phoebe jogging up to him, which is a sign that the girls have chosen their sweets already. He braces for the impact to catch her as Phoebe squeals and hops onto Louis.

"Oomph." He fixes his grip on her hip. "Yeah, only that we're not married. And not a couple. And never will be. After he said he prefers Tom Hardy over Reynolds, I just can’t help but write divorce papers before even getting engaged.”

"We want the pink piggies!" Phoebe announces right next to Louis' ear, making him tilt his head away from the sound. _Ouch_.

Pink piggies, also known as doughnuts with full flamingo-colored frosting, fondant triangles as ears, and eyes-shaped sprinkles, it is then.

A few seconds after Louis murmurs to Phoebe that she is a little too old to be carried in his arms, he pays for the sweets and hands the paper bags to the girls. Finally fully content, the twins chirp their 'thank you's’ to Perrie and Louis, and crouch down to tuck the snacks in their bags.

"They're the sweetest kids I've ever seen," Perrie comments.

"They're absolute demons,” Louis huffs, fixing a strap of his backpack. “Two weeks ago they had a juggling competition in my room."

The woman frowns. "Sounds harmless to me."

"With my underwear and potatoes."

 

 

Louis’ eardrums seem to cave in when the train pulls into the station with the screech of metal on metal brakes.

Despite knowing by now how to control his senses at least partially, it often feels as futile as trying to sweep up the desert with a broom. The action movies don’t show that part very well, how hard it is to actually try and live with enhanced senses. How you have to try and go through your day to day routine with everything being too loud, too bright, too fast, too smelly, and too… anything, really.

Swallowing down his discomfort, Louis adjusts the grip he has on the twins’ hands as the train doors open with a hiss and creak.

“Are you tired, Achoo?” Daisy continues the line of questioning that she had started as soon as they had left the cake shop. She gives a quick glance to the left where her sister is, making sure she’s not gotten lost. “Mom sometimes says she’s tired when she doesn’t want to say that she’s sad.”

Louis leads them all into the crowded train. They manage to fit into a space near the doors, right by the rail, so he places the girls’ hands on it, his own palms curling over theirs. It’s an earlier train and Niall often chooses his bike over the subway anyways, so Louis doesn’t expect his friend to suddenly show up, but he takes a last glance down the platform just in case.

“Daddy always tells her to get more sleep. Do you need more sleep, ‘choo?” Phoebe looks up at Louis, demanding his attention and an answer.

“I’m not tired,” he finally replies, shifting his gaze to the inside of the train, eyes scanning around for any sign of danger. Pickpockets and drunk idiots are a standard fixture on New York's subway lines, and he’d be fine on his own, but he prefers to stay away from these when he's with the twins. “I just didn’t have enough sleep.”

“Well then why woncha sleep more?”

“Sleep is for the weak.” Louis rubs his nose. _Crap_. “And for the kids. For everyone. I just don’t, uh, I have—I prefer doing homework at nights, you see. That's the part where you remember to not tell your mom what I said.”

The twins give him a weird look, but then shrug it off, not pushing anymore. As curious as they are, they always seem to know Louis' boundaries and sense when he's done talking. They start a conversation between themselves, commenting people on the train (quietly and without pointing, just like Louis taught them), and give him some space.

Louis makes sure the girls' hands are gripping the rail, and then, still half looking at them, pulls out his phone. There's no texts and no unanswered calls, so he opens messages and taps on the number that was given to him once he and Tony parted on Queens Boulevard.

His finger hovers over the empty chat.

"Protective boyfriend, eh?"

Louis yelps, almost dropping his phone. Thank you, genetically altered spider, for adhesive skin.

"Jesus Christ," he murmurs, locking the screen.

"I’m just Harry."

"That's like the oldest joke ever, dude," Louis snorts and, having slid the phone into the front pocket of his jeans, looks up.

He's got no idea how Harry managed to sneak up and not trigger his spider-sense, but who cares when the boy's irises are sparkling in the dim light of partially working bulbs in the train. Louis' pretty sure he's never seen such green eyes, but come to think of it, he's never really looked a lot of people in the eye. He's also noticed that the 'who cares’ applies to any situation happening around him when Harry's close.

 _He_ cares. He cares because that's just not good. He must care and pay attention.

"And no, no boyfriend," he adds, struggling to keep his voice casual.

Harry grips on the rail right over Louis' hand, standing in front of him, careful to not get in the twins' way.

"Girlfriend, then?" Harry tilts his head to the side, eyes curious. “Or is there something you wanna tell me? Give it to me straight—are you having a boy or a girl? I'm not ready to be an uncle, you know. I'm not even ready to be ready. Oh, you’re an alien, right? That would explain a lot of things. You don’t do human relationships? Do I need to paint myself blue for you?”

The boy's face brightens up with a wide, close lipped smile, corners of his mouth trembling a bit as he tries not to laugh.

Harry sounds so friendly at the ungodly AM. He must be one of those annoying people persons. Or a morning person. Maybe even— dear lord— _both_.

“Blue—What? I don’t do relationships at all, Curly.” Louis scrunches his nose, quite fond of the way Harry’s speech apparently transits from slow to fast whenever he wants it to.

“Jeez, ‘kay, don’t go full _Fifty Shades_ on me, what have I done to you or this world for you to treat me that cruelly? Have a heart.”

Louis actually snorts. “Haven’t seen your criminal record yet. Wait, what things would it explain?”

“IQ, for starters.”

“Is that—Do you—Are you attempting to insult me right now?”

"Curly?" Phoebe's head snaps up, and Daisy follows right after with peaked interest.

"Sisters?" Harry asks. If his eyes were sparkling before, now they're shining like fireworks as his gaze drops to the twins. He draws out a hand. “Hi, I‘m Harry.”

The girls happily go for the fist bumps, introducing themselves.

"Neighbor's kids," Louis corrects. "Little gremlins I get to babysit from time to time."

"Uhhh, excuse us?" Daisy pouts, cocking one hip and putting a hand on it.

Louis has a feeling that this is how he looks like when he tries to be intimidating as Spider-Man. He’s gotta work on that part of his job.

"I'm sorry." He presses a hand to his heart, his voice dripping with sugar. "I meant to say devil's children."

"You're a _bad_ , bad person, Ach—”

Louis presses a palm to Daisy’s mouth, stifling her words.

He really doesn't need the girls to embarrass him in front of a guy he barely knows. He's had enough of amazing first impressions after Jay presented Tony with the only cake she can't actually bake and then last Saturday’s fiasco, he won't have the twins calling him Achoo here and now.

“Shush, you two, or else I'm confiscating the piggies.”

Phoebe lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, but goes quiet, right along with her sister after Louis draws his hand back.

The train starts moving, so Louis braces himself on his feet, keeping an eye on the twins. He may be able to stick to solid surfaces, but the combination of being super as well as clumsy doesn't usually end up well. It takes a teeny tiny amount of focus to attach himself to a surface, and a year back, once he realized that, he was utterly grateful for that little detail. He is decidedly less fond of his tendency to stick to absolutely everything when his fear  results in uncontrollable adhesiveness.

There was this one time he forgot to actually stick himself to the floor, tripped over his own shoes, and landed with his face on some older men’s chest. It was very hot that day, and let’s just say that neither the shirt nor the man were exactly dry.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice forces him to straighten up and look the boy in the eyes again. He's starting to presume that he'll miss his station if they get into the harryandlouis bubble again.

“Hm?” He nods his head questioningly.

Harry doesn’t reply, pressing his lips together and looking up as if the ceiling had all the words for what he wanted to say just waiting for him to read out.

For what feels like an hour, he’s just staring at Louis, eyelids fluttering lazily as he blinks. Louis wonders if he can also breathe slower than everyone else.

It’s in that moment when he realises that this slowness doesn’t annoy him. And it should. For all gods’ sakes, it really freaking should. It goes against Louis’ nature to like anything slow and still, contrary to the popular belief and reputation he’s got at school. There’s a reason why he chooses less crowded shortcuts when going out.

But it doesn’t. It’s strangely endearing.

“First off, I’m sorry,” Harry finally speaks up, eyes darting down and away. “That’s so soap opera of me, jeez, I need to get my act together.” He sniffs dramatically and looks Louis straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for—”

“Hold the phone, no, no. No ‘sorry’s from you, Curly.” Louis almost puts his finger on Harry’s mouth, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, so he just settles on shaking his head. He didn’t expect to have this talk at seven forty in the morning, but he might as well have it. They say there’s never a right time to approach difficult situations, so, bravely, he’ll roll with seven forty. “I shouldn’t have stormed out from the diner without a word, it’s me who’s gotta say sorry. I acted like an idiot.”

The boy frowns. “Niall explained he shouldn’t have said what he said. You had the right to—”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t even say anything, just…” Louis takes a short, deep breath. “Listen to me.”

“Obviously—”

“No, hey, listen.” Hoping that Harry isn’t really into personal space, he places his index finger on the boy’s lips, effectively shushing him. He’s met the warmth of plush, cherry lips under his enhanced sense of touch. _Christ._ “I mean, yeah, I need to remind ‘im to keep his mouth shut when it comes to my privacy, but—Stop _doing_ that, dammit,” he scoffs when Harry starts crossing his eyes, trying to look at Louis’ digit. “I really shouldn’t be talking about it, okay? Mister Stark would kill me if I ever—”

“What?” Harry mumbles under the pressure of Louis’ finger. His eyes go wide in excitement, but there's some incredulity in them. “You know Tony Stark? Like _the_ Tony Stark? The Tin Man?”

“Uhm, yeah?” Louis pulls back his hand. He feels out the warmth left on his fingertips, trying hard not to show how weirdly it affects him. “I thought Niall already told you guys that I got an internship at Stark Industries.” He shrugs. “I mean, the whole school knows.”

“Never got wind of it. That's so _cool_ , man.” Harry flashes Louis a wide grin. “How’d you get it? Lemme guess—”

“Maybe not.”

“Christianmingle?”

“Why would you even—I’m gonna pretend you didn’t mean that.”

“I didn’t,” Harry agrees, fixing his gaze on Louis. “I hoped for option number two—Beyonce is your cousin.”

Louis gives him a look.

"What are you—You do talk some shit."

“No? Akon? Mufasa? Sid the sloth? Don't be shy, give me something to work with.”

"What in the—No, it was the September Foundation Grant, come on. Do I look like Sid the sloth to you? Don't answer that question."

"More like a twin to Bambi. The nineteen-forty-two run, not the two-thousand-and-six one.”

“September Foundation Grant, for the love of God.” Louis closes his eyes and takes a short breath. He’s not going to laugh. He’s not going to laugh.

He’s going to chuckle. Just a bit.

“I thought it was only about sponsoring?” Harry’s eyebrows crinkle as he studies Louis’ face. “Like, funding projects? Money-fueled thingy that’d give you what you need to do your money-starved thingy?”

“Yeah, but—Watch out.”

In an immediate response to the spider-sense, Louis’ hand instinctively shoots out to clench on Harry’s hoodie and roughly yank him forward, just in time for the visibly drunk man to fall into the place where Harry was just standing. The guy hits the floor face first with a groan, making the crowd disperse. Louis’ gaze quickly scans the people’s faces—most of them show disgust, some of them just boredom, but none of them is focused on Louis’.

There’s nothing more consoling than New York at its finest.

He pays no more attention to the crowd, and looks back at the boy in front of him.

“Eleven out of ten, would be seduced again,” is all that Harry says, and that's when Louis becomes aware of the almost nonexistent space dividing their bodies right now.

Louis’ arm is trapped between their chests, fingers still clenched on the thick material of Harry's hoodie. Half consciously, he realizes that he can sense the boy's heart beating faster and faster; he watches Harry’s lips starting to part in surprise, his own mouth going dry.

They're close. Way too close. And Harry's taller. How much taller is he?

Louis stifles a grunt, letting go of the boy, and tucking his hand back to the pocket of his jacket.

“How come you're on this train, anyway?” he asks in lieu of distraction, turning his head away. He locks his gaze on the twins, suddenly interested in their quiet conversation about the new puzzles their dad bought two days ago. “Haven’t seen you before in the past week.”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Harry fixing his grip on the rail and taking a step back. His lips are slightly widened in a tiny smile, but there's this unreadable expression in his eyes again, the same one Louis saw in the classroom back on Thursday.

“'S the first time I’ve used this subway, my mom’s been driving me to school so far. I live here,” Harry replies, pointing behind his back with his thumb. “I mean, Queens Boulevard.”

That draws Louis’ attention.

“No way.” His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Where exactly?”

“The, uhm… Across the street from _Haggin’s_.” Harry scrunches his nose. Louis figures that if anyone else would do that, it would look ridiculous, or maybe even borderline ugly, but his heart does a tiny flip at the adorable manner. Harry's free hand wanders to the one curl that didn't make it under the black headscarf. He pushes it under the material mindlessly, a clear act of muscle memory. “You know, those three huge-ass towers—”

“I know, I know,” Louis cuts him. Busted. “That’s where I live, too.”

“You're shittin’ me.” Harry frowns, eyes scanning his face, looking for a sign of him taking a piss. “You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you? Don’t do that, I have a delicate heart.”

“No,” Louis chuckles, hiding the very real panic starting to pool in his stomach.

“I’ve lived there for like a week, I haven't seen you _once_ ,” Harry argues like he still can't believe in what he hears. As _if_ Louis would be joking about that.

“I, well.” _I_ _usually climb through the window or come back at irregular hours_. “I don't know. It’s a big city, you know. Big building. S. Big _buildings_. But, yeah, I live in the one closest to the street.”

Harry blinks. “What floor?”

“Planning on dropping by already?” Louis playfully squints at him, ignoring the hysteria trying to make its way to his head. “Only Niall has—”

“I make great vanilla muffins.”

“Nineteenth.”

For the last few minutes of the ride, they don’t talk, but it’s not uncomfortable in the slightest. At some point, Louis guesses, he'll have to properly process the fact that the new pretty boy from his school lives in his building, which doesn't bode greatly for his hormones’ well being.

He crouches down, and focuses back on the twins. Keeping his balance without holding the rail would be child's play, but he holds onto it anyways. He engages in the discussion about what kind of dress would fit Cinderella better (they never come to any conclusion, but blue is boring). The girls seem to be discontent with Louis having no ideas for Cinderella’s new outfit, so he suggests something else than a dress, which starts another discourse: would the princess look better in a plain shirt or a button up shirt?

When the door slides open at Parsons/Archer, the twins are still avidly debating floral button-ups, so Louis has to put more mind into herding them off of the train as they don’t even pay much attention to him tugging their hands. Harry jumps on the pavement right after them, his surprisingly agile moves not escaping Louis’ notice.

The primary school that the girls attend is on the other side of Archer Avenue, so Louis starts waving Harry goodbye as the boy fixes the straps of his backpack.

“See you later, Haz.”

Harry’s head snaps, his gaze a little lost, but Louis is already walking away, the girls still chattering. They don’t look back, and neither does he.

It isn’t until Louis’ hugging Niall sorry later in the school’s hallway that he realises he never asked Harry what floor he lives on.

 

 

Louis is pretty sure he’s never seen his clothes as scrupulously piled up as today. As he considers the mountain of shirts, underwear, and pants, he wonders what the hell he was thinking this morning when he agreed to attend the party at Gwen’s. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking at all. His brain flew out of the window and came back a second too late to fix anything.

Trying to convince himself that Harry nodding yes to the question of if he’s gonna be at the party had nothing to do with Louis’ decision is going about as well as trying to pick an outfit.

“Nope, nope, nope. Definitely not. _Not_ ‘cause of him,” he mutters, sitting criss-cross in front of the pile. The wall closet behind him is almost totally empty, save for a suit in a bag and a couple of pairs of shoes lined up on the floor. “He had nothing to do with your decision, Tomlinson, you just went offline again. Remember that we talked about this, yes? Try and be more conscious of your surroundings maybe, and perhaps the upward trend of your unthought-out decision making will stop."

The thing is, it _is_ because of Harry.

All Louis wanted this morning was to apologise to his friend, pass the physics test, and have a good, typical day with an energy drink gulped down before he’d head out for his after-school patrol. Besides the nailed test, his plans went to shit the moment Harry joined him, Liam, and Niall in the canteen, asking about Gwen’s party before his butt even touched the seat.

Niall being Niall, answered enthusiastically that he’d love to go, but his ‘dickhead of a friend’ just wouldn’t agree.

Louis being Louis, instead of stating a reasonable point that he and Niall aren't attached to the hip, ignoring both the fact that Niall and Harry apparently bonded at _Haggin’s_ and the conversation going on, tried very hard to not stare at the one curl poking out of Harry’s headscarf.

Just when he began considering a visit to the school psychologist, because thinking that one swirly strand of hair is the most adorable thing in the world just couldn’t be healthy, he felt a tap on his hand that was clutching tight on the energy bar.

“You zoned out again,” Niall sighed, returning to his lunch.

“What was the question?” Louis asked, peeking around the people by the table.

They all exchanged looks.

“Harry asked why you’re not going,” Liam explained.

And then a very confusing scenario happened.

Louis glanced back at the curly boy who was just sitting there with damn green, curious eyes, mouth filled with a lollipop. In the back of his mind Louis realised that it was the same kind of a candy that Niall always buys. His brain had to be too focused on wondering whether his friend gave Harry that lollipop or they went shopping together, because what he blurted out in response wasn't what he wanted to say.

The fault lies entirely with the lollipop.

“Who says I’m not going?”

Maybe not that confusing. He’s just dumb.

There were no take-backs. All he could do was mentally slap himself and start trying to convince his useless brain that no, what he said wasn't because of the hopeful look Harry was sending towards him causing him to go soft and stupid.

He needs an update on the intelligence test.

“Two hundred fifty,” Louis huffs, swiftly getting up from the ground, having picked up on the steady steps outside of his room. “How's this even possible?” He approaches the door, and twists the knob before his aunt starts knocking.

“Are you moving out?” She asks, giving one quick glance to the pile in the middle of his room as soon as the door opens wide. “The money from the internship is not enough to pay the rent, you know.”

Louis doesn't answer. He turns on his heel, takes one step forward, and falls dramatically into the mountain of clothes face first. He swallows the moan caused by the pain in his knees after they’ve hit the hard ground, instead snuggling into the various textures of shirts and pants. The plastic button that's currently sticking into his forehead will probably leave a mark on his skin, but he’s not in the mood to care about that now.

He mumbles something incoherent even to him, his voice muffled by the beige sweater in his mouth. Jay sits down on his bed.

“Speak English,” she says. “Shouldn't you be at the Tower by now?”

“Hmh.”

“Honey—”

“I took a day off.” Louis lifts his head a bit just to lie it back down, this time on the side so that he can look at his Aunt. “Mister Stark always says I should. Like, I never take days off.”

“Alright then, what’s the matter, angel?” Jay asks, leaning forward, and tucking her hands between her knees.

For a couple of seconds, Louis just lies there, watching his aunt as she muffles a yawn. She's visibly tired, having barely come back from her double shift at hospital. Her eyes are calling for sleep, the lines underneath familiar and whittled in the tanned, but fatigued skin.

Every time he looks at her he’s struck with brief image of his mom and how similar he is to both her and her sister. It's always surprising to realise how much Louis looks like Jay. Sharp cheekbones, even if hers are less defined and covered by slightly chubby cheeks. Light brown hair, striking ocean blue eyes. matching sets of freckles on the bridge of a nose. The only difference lies in the waistline (which, what the hell).

“I’m going out,” he replies finally, the words tasting foreign on his tongue, almost like a first kiss. Only that there’s less weirdness to it, and more anxiety and regret. “To a party.”

“Really?” Jay’s eyes widen almost comically. Fair enough, given his social life record.

“I was _manipulated_ into it.” Louis rolls down from the pile, landing by Jay’s feet on his back. “I should have known better than to trust Niall.”

“Manipulated? How so?”

_A very pretty boy was sucking on a lollipop and looking at me like I was an almost won lottery just waiting for the last number to match his set and take the money home._

“I have nothing to wear,” Louis changes the subject as he feels hot blush creeping on his cheeks. He raises from the floor and settles for sitting with his right side facing Jay, legs spread wide and partly framing the mountain of clothes.

“You've never been to a party before,” says Jay, looking at the pile as though it’s a regular occurance for her nephew to scatter clothing around his room.

She’s seen it worse. In his early teens Louis had been a bit of a mess, to say the least.

While he may have helped old ladies cross the street and washed the dishes he had also been a very hormonal teenager. As such a creature he would argue with her about everything and toss his clothes on the floor just because he could. Luckily, the phase didn’t last long, and after about a year and a half of being someone even he didn’t like very much, he was suddenly fourteen, and so damn sorry.

These days both of them know Louis is gonna put the clothes back in their place. He's a teenager, not a savage.

“I was—”

“Homecoming’s not a party,” Jay cuts him off with a chuckle.

“You sound like Niall,” Louis huffs, taking a worn out Black Sabbath shirt in his hands. _Too_ _dark_. He throws it back, and starts digging into the pile. Maybe he has missed some piece of clothing that would fit his undetermined expectations.

“Because it's true. It was just a school dance, honey, we're talking about a real party here, aren't we?”

“Yeah, it's a house party.” He nods, rejecting two way too nerdy shirts.

“Where?”

“At Gwen's.” _Why do I even own red chinos?_

“That former close friend of yours who decided to live a cool life in higher spheres of the high school hierarchy? I’ve heard her father was promoted to captain recently.”

“Yes and yes. Heard that, too. NYPD Captain. Pretty cool.”

“And when’s the party?”

“Wednesday.” Louis goes through a few more shirts, casting each one aside.

“How about we buy some nice clothes?” Jay asks, her eyes observing the boy intently. “It’s about time we went somewhere together again.”

‘Buy some clothes’ means a pair of jeans or a shirt, given their financial status, but it’s something Louis has gotten used to. Spider-Man aside, they live an average life, and that’s okay. Much to his discontent, though, in order to keep the lie going, Stark Industries actually does transfer money to his still fresh bank account regularly as if he was actually attending an internship. He agreed with Jay that from that moment on, he’d pay for his own lunches at school and small things, and the deal has been working out well so far.

With a short sigh, Louis shuffles over on the floor to get closer to his aunt. He fits into the space between the bed and Jay’s hip, snuggling up to her side, and dropping his head on her lap. She brings her hand to her nephew’s mess of hair. She starts drawing circles with her fingertips, occasionally tangling a strand around her index finger.

“What's wrong, Boo?”

The truth is, Louis should be sleeping now. Or at the very least eating a proper meal, one that could keep up with his insane metabolism.

Juggling the contradictory roles of being one of the best students in New York City as well as a self-titled hero is tough. Throw in the pile of lies weighing down his shoulders, a crapload of fake smiles straining his face, and a kickass chronic headache that comes and goes, and the number of balls in the air begins to become uncountable. He was managing the juggling act just fine until a certain someone decided to change schools and managed to disrupt Louis carefully balanced reality.

God, he hates Harry.

“I'm just… I don’t know,” he says, his voice half muffled by the material of his aunt’s pants. “I don’t know. I had a fight with Niall, and it’s gonna rain again as if I haven’t gotten wet enough recently, and I still don’t know how to use chopsticks. Who came up with the idea of eating with two sticks? Just eat it like a normal person. With hands.”

“Is that all? No heartbreaks, no problems at school? Got a B plus from a physics test?”

“A minus, actually.”

“Oh, that’s tragic.” Jay laughs, moving her hand onto Louis’ back where she starts rubbing calming circles. “Hey, isn't Wednesday Valentine's Day?”

Louis blinks.

“Say what?”

“You said the party is on Wednesday. That's Valentine's Day.”

His heart sinks. What day even is it today? Is it already February? It is, he's pretty sure he brought it up a couple of days ago when asking Liam why Harry joined the Mid-News club in the middle of a school year.

Speaking of Harry.

“Cancel that, I'm not going. No, sir.”

“Knew it.” Even though Louis can't see his Aunt’s face, he's more than sure she's smirking. “So, what’s his name?”

“Jaaay,” Louis whines, crawling back to the pile of clothes.

It’s a lost cause, he knows it. He’s more than lucky he’s managed to keep his alter ego a secret for so long, and that’s only because Jay took the job at hospital three years ago. Her long shifts and irregular hours allow Louis to have more time alone without worrying his Aunt. As much as he regrets her having to spend so much time in a stressful environment and how that impacts onto the small amount of time that they get to see one another, he’s glad she’s not there to see him sneak out every night, and doesn't bother him when he's late after the 'internship’.

Between the two evils, he’d rather have her tired than sent into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes follow him as he gets up and starts folding the clothes and putting them back on hangers and shelves. Part of him wishes he could be using web-shooters now so he wouldn't have to stoop to the pile he made, but the other, more rational part knows exactly how much of a mess the webbing can make. He tried helping himself out with the webs one time when tidying up the apartment, which resulted in the rooms failing to pull off the aftermath-of-the-explosion-of-a-cotton-candy-machine chic for over an hour. Not his finest moment.

Jay leans back a bit to rest her hands on the bed. “Come on, Boo, who is he?”

“He's actually our new neighbor.” A split second after letting those words out, he realises he shouldn't have said that.

“That curly one?” Jay chirps. “He's sweet.”

“Yeah.” He can’t help but smile. “Yeah, he is.”

He slumps against the wall near the closet, hands clutching onto a rainbow colored hoodie that he got from Niall on his sixteenth birthday along with a unicorn cup. The hoodie is two sizes too big on him and way too comfy to be legal.

A smile crawls on his lips at the memory of his accidental coming out.

When at the age of fourteen, somewhere between downloading another picture of Ryan Reynolds and listening to Tyler Oakley’s podcasts, he started to realise he fancied boys, he just didn't say a word. Why would he? It wasn’t his fault that the world assumes everyone is straight by default.

The sky’s blue, the sun shines, he’s gay. Try and fight it.

So when he was in McDonald's with Niall, and unintentionally spoke out loud his opinion on the attractive guy sitting across from their table, he wasn't afraid. His friend had merely nodded in response, and sighed 'he’s no Zac Efron, but I’d hit that’. That was basically it.

Anyways. Valentine’s Day. Thanks but no, thanks.

“How were the twins today?” Jay asks, pulling him back into the present.

“Goody two-shoes with the chaos of the demonic. The usual.” Thankful for the change of topic, Louis changes his current button up and sweater for a long-sleeved shirt, casting the clothes onto the chair by his desk, and starts slipping his hands into the sleeves of the hoodie. “What happened anyways? I mean, with Sarah and Mitch.”

“Usual, early business call.” Jay waves a hand.

“Huh. They back home now?” He wasn’t asked to pick up the girls from school after classes, so that's probably the case, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

“Yep. I'm being serious about that shopping, Lou,” she says, her eyes still on Louis. “I need a few new clothes, too. We could go to the Center, buy some nice things, then stuff ourselves with the whole periodic table at McDonald's, and then regret it an hour later as we watch _House._ Sound good? Tomorrow?”

Louis rolls up the sleeves of the hoodie twice, so that they don't fall further than behind his wrists. He brings his hands up to fix the hood and flashes Jay a smile.

“Sure.” He checks if his worn out jeans are properly zipped. “Six?”

“Five? I'll try to be home sooner.”

“Alright.”

Jay reciprocates the smile, then yawns, covering her mouth with a hand.

“Go to sleep, Jay,” says Louis, reaching down for the last few pieces of clothing. “I’m going out to the skatepark, you'll have your quiet. Call me if you need anything.”

“It's quiet even when you're here,” she chuckles, standing up. “Wish I had your devotion to books and science when I was your age. Maybe I wouldn’t have been such a little, cranky devil if I did.”

Jay is at the door when she turns her head, and looks at Louis one more time. He’s busy with folding the last shirt, but the keyed-up senses enable him to feel his aunt watching him intently.

"Hey?"

Louis tightens the grip on the Skate Tough tank top. "Hm?"

"How are you sleepin'?

He frowns, too stubborn to not just drop the piece of clothing and hug the hell out of the woman, before snuggling with her on the couch like they used to do years ago. A sting of guilt pierces through his heart.

He shrugs. "Fine."

He waited a moment too long, though. Both Jay and Louis know a liar when they see one.

Louis is really, _really_ lucky he’s managed to be Spider-Man under her nose.

 

 

“So I have a problem.”

Niall tugs on the material of his fingerless gloves. Seconds pass until he gives Louis a look. “That problem have anything to do with me?”

“Uhm, no?”

“Suffer alone, then.”

Louis uncrosses his arms and punches his friend’s ankle.

“Fuck you,” Niall hisses, scooting forward and massaging his feet.

Louis only rolls his eyes in response.

He’s been dangling upside down on one of the higher rails for what feels like forever, but in reality it’s been probably around four minutes. The kids hanging out in the skatepark have been occasionally sparing him glances of interest, as if waiting for the moment when his face starts going puffy and red, but joke’s on them because it never will. He wouldn’t have got into the habit of reading books upside down otherwise.

“Why didn't you tell me the party's on Valentine's Day?” Louis tucks the hem of his shirt back into its place, and crosses his arms against his chest, mostly in order to keep the hoodie from falling onto his face entirely. The afternoon is surprisingly warm, and he knows it’s not so easy for him to catch a cold nowadays, but forewarned is forearmed.

“Assumed that you know how a calendar works.” Niall shrugs. He takes a bite of his Snickers, chews methodically, and swallows. “Hey, how long can you hang like this, by the way?”

“I don’t know,” Louis flexes a few muscles to give his body a slight swing back and forth. “How long does it take to die from malnutrition and dehydration?”

“Oh, c’mon, it won't be _that_ bad.” Niall stashes the empty wrapper into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Oh, shut up, you know I hate parties.”

Louis grabs the rail, does a smooth half-flip backwards, and lands with his feet on the cold ground more clumsily than necessary. He straightens up, fixing his hoodie in the process.

“How can you know if you’ve never been to one? 'Sides, I thought we were talkin’ about Harry.” Niall’s face widens with a stupid grin.

Louis lets out an exaggerated sigh and runs a hand through his hair. He'll have to cut it soon. He likes having hair long enough for the bangs to touch his cheekbones, but longer strands on his neck not only make him feel like he's always sweating, but are also rather uncomfortable under the mask.

He ties the strings of the hood, teeth catching on the lower lip.

“Maybe so,” he says, leaning on the rail by Niall’s side.

He really doesn't want to talk about it. Not after Jay brought up the topic and his face made its way through the entire spectrum of red at the simple mention of a name. He hasn't given deeper thought to the Harry thing, or rather he hasn't _allowed_ himself to do so. Mainly because Louis finds him attractive and he may or may not even have started developing a tiny crush. He may be a tad antisocial, but he’s not blind.

Rubbing his nose, he starts looking around the place.

The skatepark is part of a larger area behind Louis’ building, one of the three Parker Towers, right across the narrow sidewalk. A collection of huge, half naked trees and a sizeable distance hide it from people walking along Queens Boulevard. The park itself is quite large, with a playground for kids on one side, a small, round fountain in the very middle, and a skatepark at the side with the lowest possibility of leaves. The place is usually full in the afternoons and on weekends, but the chill February reduces the incentive, even on a nice day like today, leading to the more manageable numbers at the moment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis catches two boys sitting on one of the benches, about twenty feet away from him and Niall. The kids look down sheepishly when they notice Louis’ eyes on them. One of them is holding a phone in his hand, most likely used as a timer.

“Yeah.” Niall steps at the end of Louis’ skateboard, the deck jerking up and down with his foot. “I don’t see how this is a problem.”

Louis blinks, trying to remember what they were talking about. “The problem is—”

“The problem is that you find him attractive and don’t want to,” Niall finishes for him. He gives the board a final,  kick, so it can jump up right into his hand. “My IQ may be lower than yours, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of recognising heart eyes when I see ‘em.”

Louis recalls all the times that Liam’s gaze was sickeningly stuck on Niall. “Debatable.”

“I really don’t get you sometimes. You’re the literal opposite of a normal, healthy teenager, y’know? Like I know I didn’t have the right to spill the beans like that and tell the guys about your meet-cutes with Spider-Man, but the part about Harry? I am right, and you gotta admit it. And don’t pull the ‘not everyone’s gay’ card. If he’s not, then at least you’ll be settled and informed. What’s so bad about this, man?”

Everything. Everything’s bad about this. He sniffs in response and drops his gaze to his shoes—ones of the two pairs that Tony gifted to him ages ago. They look like socks with what Louis likes to call magic soles glued to the under side. They’re adapted to Louis’ skin’s electrostatic force, surreally comfortable, made of a kevlar-spandex hybrid, and one of a kind. It hasn't escaped his notice that even Nick and his troupe throw jealous glances at the shoes sometimes.

Anyway. Here's the thing: if he _was_ an ordinary teenager with bread-and-butter issues, he'd be over the moon that an attractive guy happened to appear in his school out of the blue. He'd probably embarrass himself in the process, but he wouldn't shrink from clumsy flirting and trying his best to inconspicuously showing up wherever Harry would go. He'd be a typical boy with a developing crush. God, he’d be _dying_ to be at a Valentine's Day party where everyone is drunk and inhibitions are low.

But that’s not an option for him anymore.

Niall sighs, as always when he just can't understand Louis’ actions. His gaze lowers to the board as he shifts uncomfortably.

Louis watches him bite his lower lip, looks at the shadows falling on his neck and cheeks, at the mess of hair that is in a need of his usual trim, at the faint crinkles by his eyes from smiling twenty-four-seven. Niall has been willing to carry so much of Louis' baggage since the day they met. He's been with him through the first time Louis got bullied in middle school, through Dan's death and Jay's bad days, through better or worse. Louis can't possibly make his friend carry even more.

Luckily, he’s saved from making up a excuse as to why he’s so against admitting he’s got a thing for Harry.

“Sorry again for Saturday.”

“S’alright.” Louis shrugs. He pushes himself away from the rail and turns to face his friend, shoving hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I mean, it’s not alright like _alright_. I just—You know how much this internship means to me. You can't—” He runs a hand through his hair again, letting out a short sigh. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, okay? The fact that you happened to see the mask... You can't just spread that around.”

“Y’know I have no filter between my mouth and brain sometimes—”

“All the times.”

“...and it's a crappy excuse, but...” Niall lets out a shallow breath, his eyes dropping to the ground. “I just thought it’d be a good idea, you know? So you and Harry could talk more. I never wanted to make you angry, okay? Next time just slap me so I can learn to shut up.”

Louis snickers.

“We’re good, there’ll be no slapping involved, you know I don’t like violence.”

“That’s a blatant lie, you little fucker, and my shoulder blades experienced that lie firsthand.”

“I was a light tap, you weak mush. _But_ I take it back, that problem actually _does_ have to do with you.” He tilts his head to the side, squinting. “It was you who made me agree to that party.”

“Uhm, negative. Another lie, my boi. It was Harry,” Niall corrects and hands him the skateboard. When his gaze returns to meet Louis’, his eyes are dancing with a malicious glint and the 'gotcha’ grin is back on his lips.

“Details.” Louis waves a hand nonchalantly, but the blush, always a traitor, is already creeping on his cheeks. “You gave him that lollipop on purpose.”

“It worked.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You said a bad word! It’s the third time in this decade, I’m proud of you.”

After a quick hug and Niall's 'I _hate_ this internship’, Louis drops his board onto the ground and starts pushing himself away from the rail, leaving Niall to the two girls he has been sneaking glances at the whole thirty minutes. He slows down by the bench where the two previously noticed boys are sitting. One of them sees him and elbows his friend’s side.

“Time?” Louis asks bluntly, but with soft voice.

He really doesn't have to do that, soften his voice that is. There's a reason why Perrie calls him Doll. Many reasons, but it's mostly his pretty face that does it. Even babies in Target who cry their lungs out until Louis scoots down over the stroller—they just go quiet immediately, no matter what face he makes.

That's part of the reason why he wears a mask—imagine trying to look intimidating with a doll-like mug and vibrant sky-blue eyes.

The kids look at each other with frowns. The one who was holding the phone before speaks up first. “Six minutes and sixteen seconds.”

Louis nods as if he was approving a personal record.

“How did you do that?” The other kid asks. “I can only do it for one minute, then my head feels like it’s gon’ explode.”

Louis looks up and to the side, seeking for a good, convincing answer. “Carrots?”

 

 

Ten minutes later he's closing his bedroom window with one foot, the other rested on cold bricks as his hands fiddle with web-shooters. He changes the right pellet, putting the almost empty container into the clip sewn into the waistline of his suit, and checks on his room again. Then he moves a few feet to the left where Jay’s window is and looks into her bedroom, making sure she's fast asleep. He allows himself to just watch a bit as his aunt breathes evenly, her chest rising and falling, barely visible in the dim light coming from the streets.

Not wasting more time, he pushes off the wall, thinking of the minutes spent at the skatepark after school.

The problem with things you love is that they're often the ones that mess you up.

Louis loves his aunt and Niall, science and technology, and skating, but all of these are distractions screwing up the free time he could— _should—_ be using for patrolling.

As his thoughts wander to Harry, he decides he can’t allow himself on another distraction in his life. It's settled.

 

**February the 14th, Wednesday**

 

Niall slaps Louis’ hand for the fifth time in the span of the four minutes they’ve spent in Gwen’s kitchen. Not that he’s counting.

Louis lets go of his crotch, not even slightly less uncomfortable.

"I just would like my boys back in their pouches," he scoffs, fixing the pants again.

"You're _fine_ , jeez, stop squirming.”

He wants to hiss that it's easy to say when Niall’s not wearing skin tight black jeans chosen by his aunt, and when his junk doesn’t get misplaced with every step he takes, but he settles on letting out a quiet whine of discontent.

This was a _bad_ idea. It wasn't even an _idea_. It was a forced by the powers of a lollipop agreement that had nothing to do with a healthy seven-steps decision making process. Louis is pretty sure he wouldn't have gone dumb and agreed on going to Gwen's party, and he wouldn't now be praying for his balls to make it through the few hours in the suffocating material if it wasn’t for Niall handing Harry a candy at the beginning of a period.

Thinking of the time he’s wasting makes him want to cry. He should be doing his patrol. There are people who may be in danger, and he's just here, with crushed junk and a conspiring jerk of a friend. The unpleasant feeling of guilt has been growing heavy in his chest ever since he tucked himself into the brand new skinnies. The money he took for a taxi burns in his front pocket as he considers just sneaking out as soon as Niall loses the sight of him.

"I have an idea, a good one. Well-thought out one. An amazing one," he says, trying to steady his voice enough for it to be louder than the music. “Let’s go home.”

The music and chatter have already started to hurt his brain, and if it wasn't for the fact that he had learned how to at least slightly control his enhanced senses, his head would have exploded by now. On the bright side, he’d die to the rhythm of _Lean On_ , which isn’t a bad way to go.

"Christ, it's just a party." Niall turns a bit to look at Louis, his hands mindlessly gripping two beers from a counter. He hands Louis one bottle. “Give it a go. If something happens and you're not feeling it, we'll go."

"I'm not feelin’ my testicles, does that count?" Louis asks with hope sugaring his voice.

Niall grimaces. "Don’t ever say ‘testicles’ again. And chill out, just try to have fun."

Just try to have fun. Sure. He can do it. Yeah, easy-peasy.

Louis lets out another whine. He starts looking around the big, modern kitchen where he and Niall headed right after greeting Gwen and handing her a hazelnut chocolate bar. Too many people. Louis sees a large amount of students at school, but this crowd is way too colorful and way too ear-piercing for his enhanced senses.

Who even throws a party in the middle of a school week? Come to think of it, there had to be a reason why he and Gwen were friends. He once heard that crazy matches crazy, and in his case, maybe stupid matches stupid.

Louis turns his gaze back to where his friend is supposed to be standing, about to ask how is he supposed to have fun when he can't even _put a hand into the pocket of his jeans_ , but instead he's met with emptiness.

"Thank you, Niall, for your undying fidelity."

He gets on his tiptoes to take a look over people's heads from the middle of the open kitchen he's standing in. Nothing. Niall's like a sock in a washing machine.

Give him a couple of minutes alone and he'll start overthinking the fact that Harry's supposed to appear at this party, too. In order to distract his over-stimulated brain, he looks around again, taking in the Stacy's place, his gaze sliding across the main room and open kitchen which look as though they could have been taken out from an IKEA magazine.

Feeling anxiety beginning to kick its way into his nervous system, he tries to focus on the people themselves. He doesn't recognize most of the faces, which makes him think that at least half of the people aren't even from Midtown High. Some of them Louis knows from academic contests. All of them, though, despite being from what seems like different worlds, appear to be having a blast, sipping their drinks through straws or downing beers from the bottle, bobbing heads, and moving now slightly to Rihanna’s _Work_. Louis hadn't exactly expected them to form a prayer circle, but seeing people his age and younger drink like it's a thing they do makes him a bit unsettled.

Despite the crowd Louis can’t see a single person that he feels like talking to and he's struck by the sense that he’s simply wasting time, so much precious, valuable time. Maybe if he sneaks out soon he'll be able to get a few hours of patrolling. Or he'll pull an all-nighter like he’s done many times before.

He’s barely started planning how to sneak out from a house where nobody cares or even knows you (straight through the door, easy) when the phone in his back pocket vibrates. Pulling it out, he unlocks the screen to see Niall's message and lets out a small yawn of boredom.

 

nialler, 9:14 PM

h & z on the horizon

 

Louis' heart does an unbridled flip. _Oh, this is bad_.

He considers the bottle in his hand and decides to down half of it. Even though he knows it won’t do anything he figures a placebo effect may let him loosen up a bit and chill out.  

Who is he trying to fool, honestly, he’ll go jelly-legged the second Harry smiles.

The beer tastes disgusting, and with a scrunch of his nose, he decides to start looking for Niall. He takes a step out of the kitchen when suddenly, he's being flashed a tiny warning from his spider-sense before getting pulled back against the counter.

"Uhm, ouch?" He frowns, looking up to see the face of the attacker. His bruised coccyx is pressed straight up against the edge of the countertop, and he doesn't like it in the slightest.

"Miss me, baby?"

He swallows a sigh that threatens to come out of his mouth before replying.

"See, not a fan of lying." His eyes quickly scanning the girl he’s had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting once before.

This time, she's wearing black leggins that easily double as a second skin, and a loose, candy pink button up shirt with all buttons undone, so that the main focus of a person who's looking at her would fall onto the glowing yellow bra underneath. The thickly caked on makeup flicks in him a worry about the future her skin condition.

The girl gives him the same hungry smile she had in the elevator several days ago.

"What's a good boy like you doing in a bad place like this?" She asks, reducing the distance between them.

 _That's the question of the day_ , Louis thinks, looking for any way of turning the girl down without being rude. Sadly, the people in the kitchen and living room don't seem to notice his discomfort, and neither does the girl. And that’s the society he pulls all-nighters for?

"Never got to introduce myself. Felicia," she continues, placing one hand on the counter, right next to Louis', the other busy with a half full glass of something that's probably juice with vodka.

 _Freaking ball-mashers_. He would've tucked his hands into the pockets if the jeans weren't so damn tight. He's pretty sure that if he even attempted to do so, his junk would end up in his diaphragm.

"I'm— _Oomph._ "

In a split second the girl is being less than gently pushed away and replaced by sudden weight on Louis' chest and a storm of curls on his face.

The person's arms are being thrown around his shoulders and hug him tightly, clinging hard onto his body. Louis can't help but breathe in the sweetness that smells like a combination of Skittles and a flower shop. _Curls_.

Louis frowns, instinctively placing his hands on Harry's back. His fingertips dig into the boy's flesh, feeling the tremble of his ribcage. "Wha…”

Harry cries into his ear, clenching fists on his shirt, and mumbles incoherent cluster into the material of Louis’ shirt.

Completely helpless, Louis notices a startled Felicia standing a few steps away, the drink still in her hand, somehow looking like she wasn't just pushed away. Her overdrawn eyebrows are arched up as she eyes Harry, confusion coloring her face.

"Is there a problem?" She asks, cocking one hip.

There's something in the way she looks at Harry that makes Louis wanna ask why the hell it’s her business. He doesn't like that look at all.

And no, he’s not overprotective. Yet.

As the grip tightens on Louis, in the back of his head, he catalogues the differences between them. Harry's wider in shoulders, but his hips are narrower than Louis' who can also feel the flexing muscles of the boy's back and arms, something that wasn't visible under a sweater and a button up. He'd be lying if he said he's not enjoying the sensation, but he's also unsettled about what's going on.

Harry continues to cry out loud and sniffs several times, completely oblivious to Louis' inner crisis mixed with worry about the boy.

"I'm... Uh. Haz?" Louis murmurs hesitantly.

His gaze wanders back to Felicia. The girl rolls her eyes, sighs dramatically, and takes a sip of her drink, looking at Louis from under her eyelashes as she sucks on the straw.

"See ya later." She sends Louis a wink. And then she's out, swinging her hips as she walks away in another unsuccessful attempt to seduce him.

"She gone?" Harry whispers into his ear, no more sign of tears in his voice.

Louis' brows knit together as he tries to comprehend what the hell is happening. "Uhm, yeah?"

"Oh, thank _God_ ." Harry releases Louis from his death grip and takes a step back. He flashes a grin, clasping hands behind his back. His eyes show no sign of tears, instead looking at Louis softly and with joy. "I ain't good at playin’ roles like this. Saw this one in _Skam_.”

“What's _Skam_?”

Harry looks at him like he just grew thorns. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

Finally having a chance to get good look at the boy, Louis eyes him top to bottom, taking in the simple outfit. Harry's sporting black skinnies and a bright pink shirt with white crosses scattered across the surface, it looks at least two sizes too big for him and frees his collarbones just like his sweater did back on Saturday. A matching, candy colored headscarf pulls his hair back in the usual style, leaving a few curls free to poke out and bounce with the boy's movements.

Louis’ begun to think that Harry leaves that one curl out very much intentionally to make him go crazy.

"I think you did fine," says Louis, darting his eyes away from the uncovered, sharp collarbone, and shrugs in an attempt to show that both the soft skin and adorable swirls of hair don't make his heart beat a tiny bit faster. "I mean, it worked. You did fine."

Harry’s occupied with eyeing Louis’ red scoop shirt, way too tight pants and the kevlar shoes. When his gaze lock with Louis', there's that look that seriously needs a trademark because it's becoming A Thing.

"Thanks," he says, loosening a bit and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans that seem to be slightly less tight than Louis’, but still don't leave much to imagination.

"You know you could've just chatted me up like a normal person?" Louis can't help but smile at the adorable nose scrunch Harry presents.

The boy shrugs. "But where's the fun in that?"

"And you're all about fun.”

He nods, the few curls bouncing up and down. He lifts a hand to tuck one of them under the head scarf and Louis almost lets out a 'no'. "I mean, if I'm gonna stick around on this planet for a while, I can at least have some blast. Everything can be fun if you put your mind into it."

"When you put it that way. Niall said you're with Zayn," Louis remembers, tilting his head a bit. It's not like he's not enjoying his time alone with Harry, he just doesn't trust himself anymore when it comes to time alone with the boy.

"Yep." Harry pouts. "But he vanished as soon as I opened the door. Said something about fishing."

“I hope this fishing doesn’t have anything to do with Liam.”

Harry turns his head to look where Louis’ gaze is stuck to the corner of the room from where Liam is locking his infamous heart eyes on Niall who is dancing with some girl on the floor. Not more than a few steps away, Zayn performs the same show but his gaze wanders towards Liam himself. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and Louis can’t help but snort, and then look back at Harry whose brows are about to reach his hairline.

“I assume Niall doesn’t know.”

“You’re very perceptive.” Louis nods.

Then Harry is smiling innocently at him, but there is a secret message in his eyes and the way he shuffles, conveys a message that Louis somehow understands like they've known each other for years.

Harry nudges him with his knee. “I sense a good idea in the air.”

Louis tilts his head, pushes his cheek out with a tongue, and quirks a brow.

"How do you feel about rooftops?"

 

 

A short, dramatic shout cuts through the air.

"This is the worst idea I’ve ever been a part of."

"No, this is a _great_ idea, you just didn't have to take that beer, you lame brain. C'mon, gimme that. And then your hand."

Harry lets out a long whine but he complies and hands him the can. Louis tucks it into the pocket of his jean jacket, checking to make sure it's not open. As far as his fondness towards Harry goes, he’d probably make him suck the denim clean if it became saturated with beer.

Louis leans over from the edge of the flat rooftop and reaches to help him up.

"Couldn't we just," Harry grunts, hoisting himself on Louis’ hand and trying to not slip from the rungs, "find a room," he slumps onto the cold surface of the roof, "if we wanted to have a secret sexy make out session?"

He sits down with his legs dangling from the edge and rubs the dirt off his hands.

Louis straightens up, his feet sticking to the cold surface in case he had to catch the boy. He ignores the comment about a make out session, not trusting his brain to comprehend it right in that moment.

"Yeah." He grins. "But where's the fun in that?"

"Shut up," Harry snaps.

Louis fakes an indignant shriek when the boy smacks his thigh and seeks his revenge by pulling on the ends of his headscarf.

"Up, up, we're going to the other side."

Harry whines again, but gets up without further protest and follows Louis to the other end of the rooftop where they can have a view of the swimming pool and garden.

He yelps in surprise when Louis throws the beer over his shoulder without warning, but manages to catch it and pop it open to sip the beer on their short way to the edge.

Out of habit, Louis crouches down and looks down at the space. From inside the house the backyard was obscured, so he takes a few seconds to take in the gardens. There's a obscene number  of pots in a variety of sizes, apparently waiting for the warm season to be used again and color the garden with blooming flowers. The swimming pool is as big as could be expected for one of the larger plots in Richmond Hill. It's deceptively simple, several ladders, and a couple of wooden beach chairs scattered around and an outdoor kitchen that looks like it cost more than two of Aunt Jay's paychecks. The only source of light comes from the street lights at the front of the house and the windows from under the spot where the boys are.

"Sit your ass down, ‘kay?" Harry plops next to him. "I don't want you to fall, ‘kay, I'd have to climb back down the ladder, so spare me—Oh, come _on_!"

Louis scrunches his nose at the sudden bittersweet smell of beer. He looks aside at the boy, already aware of what he'll see and suppressing a chuckle.

“I told you not to take the beer," he comments, watching Harry frown over the big, wet stain on his crotch and thigh. "You did that to yourself, I warned you. Now own it. On the bright side,” he adds, settling himself on the roof, legs starting to swing back and forth, “you can piss yourself and no one will notice. Own that, too."

"Remind me, please, why I like you," Harry grumbles, rubbing the stain with the sleeve of his brown jacket like it's gonna help his situation.

Louis glances down at the beams of light on the terrace.

“Shared passion for bagels?” he tries.

Harry sighs, resigned to the fact that the stain won't go away anytime soon. He takes a few sips of what he's got left in the can and stands it by his thigh. He leans backwards, resting on his stretched back arms.

"You mean them grilled feet of Jack Sparrow in the shape of donuts?"

Louis gasps dramatically. "Now that does it. We have lead a good life as friends, but alas, my shattered heart appears to belong elsewhere.”

“We met several days ago and talked twice,” Harry points out. “How's this already friendship?”

Louis shrugs.

"I bonded with Niall over Ryan Reynolds' shirtless pics I used as a bookmarker. So there's that. Although he switched from the Reynolds Church to the Tom Hardy one, and I’m seriously rethinking the foundation of our relationship.”

“Gasp! Some people just can’t digest the masterpiece that _The Proposal_ is and it shows, you know. You’re absolutely justified  in your doubts.”

“Did you just say ‘gasp’ out loud?”

“I sure did. Get used to it, _friend_.”

Louis shifts his gaze from the backyard to the boy.

The soft wash of light on Harry's face exposes the set of freckles across his nose, the golden specks amidst the green of his irises, and the godforsaken plush, cherry lips, now glistening after the boy licked his lips. The chill of the February night has raised a pink flush to his cheeks accentuating the paleness of his skin. His collarbone peeking out of the loose shirt under an unzipped jacket, and the little dip in his throat could easily make Louis mewl quietly, but he swallows down the sounds pooling in his throat.

He thinks he could get used to it. To this person who he’s only just met but already feels as though he could be falling for, as if he was a fourteen-year-old from an overly cheesy Disney Channel show. Just looking at Harry makes his heart settle and a smile creeps across his face.

The painful truth about how whatever he'd like to happen just _cannot_ happen doesn’t stop him from visualizing brushing hands, heavier breaths, wordless questions, then heart thumping faster and faster, and maybe the cherry lips taste as good as they look, and…

Louis shakes his head, clearing his thoughts.

He’s relieved to see Harry’s focus has been trained towards the dimness of the backyard. A small smile is turning the corners of his lips upward, and it's almost suspicious how the boy seems to be always smiling; the only time Louis’s seen a different expression on him was in the train two days ago when he prevented the clash between Harry and a drunk man.

He's staring again, Jesus. _Get a grip_.

“So, what’s up with you and Zayn?” he asks, falling backwards and lying on the cold roof.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and rolls his eyes as he feels the jeans shift and tighten around his thighs and crotch. He's never going shopping with Jay again.

“What about us?” Harry turns his head to look at Louis.

“You two a thing?”

“He literally ditched me the moment I opened the door to this house and you think we’re a thing?”

“Fair enough.” Louis would never admit he’d hoped as much. “You seem pretty close, is all.”

“Nah.” Harry lays by Louis’ side, only a few inches separating them. “We met in the grocery store, same day as I moved here. He helped me after I’d knocked down a pile of toilet paper, and then proceeded to argue with the manager in French. Keep in mind the fact  that Zayn doesn’t know French. Comedy for free.”

“Clumsiness is your go-to way to woo?” Louis laughs.

Harry snorts, probably also recalling the field trip to Oscorp.

“Maybe. More often than not I will pour water next to a glass instead of into it, but I like to think of it as keeping life in balance, y’know?”

“Are you unfamiliar with the term clumsy or is it just your ego speaking?”

“It’s my brilliant mind, lame brain, life’s all about balance.”

“I thought you said it’s all about fun?”

“It’s life.” Harry shrugs and tugs on a strand of his hair. “It is what it is until it's not anymore. And for what it is, it’s mostly trash. Balance, not balance, fun, not fun. Just live on. Twenty eighteen, Harry Styles.”

Louis decides to turn a blind eye on the fact that the sentences didn’t really fit together. If anything, the chaotic mind of Harry makes him even more adorable.

“Even got the name of a rockstar,” he says instead. “What are you even doing in Midtown High? You should be performing in small clubs and lookin’ for a record deal. With this name you don't even have to sing, just look pretty. I think shirtless rock stars are still in.”

Harry lets out a breath and clicks his tongue.

“That’s my Friday thing.”

“I’m sorry?” Louis’ head snaps to the side, his eyes squinting.

“Performing in small clubs.” There's no trace of humor on Harry’s face, even when his eyes lock with Louis’ for a second. “They're gay clubs, actually, in Brooklyn, and there's usually more stripping than singing, a bit too much red lace if you ask me, but still.” He looks back up at the sky, presenting Louis his profile again. “There's also karaoke once a month at _Mary Jane’s_ , but Simon wins every time, that little shit. Can’t have everything I want, huh?”

Louis watches him in half horror, half amusement. He opens his mouth and closes it again, not sure what the appropriate response would be.

Suddenly the air in his lungs grows heavier and a montage of images flicker through Louis’ mind. He fights to stop the train of thoughts, the pictures of beams of lights and lace, trying to figure out an appropriate answer to what he just heard. Light and lace, though—

“You should see your face!” Harry bursts out with a loud, cackling laugh, hands raised to cover his eyes. He rolls onto his side, short breaths altering with coughs of laughter.

Louis’ eyes widen.

“You… _Dickhead_.”

He pulls his hands out of the pockets and lurches to grip on Harry's wrists. The boy shrieks and tries to free himself, which begins a tussle. The half full can gets knocked down from the roof as Harry tries to roll them and be on top, but Louis uses a bit of his strength to keep him down and squirming. When he tries to fight with his legs instead, Louis straddles his hips, balls of his feet cautiously sticking to the flat surface of the rooftop.

He blows his bangs off his eyes to have a better look on the chuckling boy underneath him.

“I win,” Harry huffs out, breathing heavily, body now still. He uncurls his hands and stops using his strength, allowing Louis to hold him down with no effort.

Louis frowns. “You're literally pinned down.”

“You know them moments in books and movies when two main characters end up in a position like ours?” Harry's eyes drop down.

If the air in Louis’ lungs was heavy before, now it's turned into liquid lead. Whether he’s breathing or not, it doesn’t matter. He’s positive he isn’t as he stares into the green of Harry's joyful eyes. The boy probably can't make out much of Louis’ face in the dim lights coming from behind his back, but Louis can perfectly see the boy's raspberry flush on soft cheekbones and the glow of parted lips.

“Are you implying we should kiss now?”

“I'm not implying, I am _asking_ for a kiss,” Harry corrects.

“Look at you, what a gentleman.”

“Yeah, see, there’s a difference in consent between should and ask.”

“Last I checked the guy with beer soaked pants that I met last week and says ‘gasp’ out loud wasn't on my list of make out partners."

"You wound me, sweet cheeks.” He pouts. “We met a year ago."

Louis rolls his eyes. "How could I forget getting knocked to the ground at  Oscorp."

"Should've kissed you there, TBH."

"We're having a verbal conversation. And, please, stop saying you wanna kiss me."

"I thought we've established that I actually, truly, really, _really_ do." Harry tilts his head a little, his gaze locked into Louis’.

“That much?”

“That much. Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

“No need, I know what a hobo zombie looks like. Plus, I’m not so sure if I’ll allow that kiss.”

The boy seems to consider Louis’ words for a few seconds before his eyes flicker.

“We'll see about that, honey bunch.”

Then he smiles, teasingly, the corners of his mouth curled upwards, just enough to flash his teeth. It's a daring smile, like he's pleased with the fact that he’s managed to get Louis to admit that maybe they want something from one another.

Louis lets go of his wrists and sits up to his knees, as he starts getting off from Harry’s hips he takes a second to study Harry’s face and mutters, “Guess we will”.

“Challenge accepted. Hey, why is there even a festival for love? I mean, who thought it was okay? Hey, let’s celebrate an emotion, it’s gonna be fun! We’ll flaunt  love around so that the people who don’t experience it will feel terrible and want to lay n’ roll in their beds in puddles of tears. You know what’d be cool? A hate festival. Everyone feels hate, it’s a universal thing, just a rung below jealousy. Why's there no festival for the people you hate?”

“Christmas Eve.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something more, but he's interrupted by a sudden outpouring of noise from the backyard. Louis leans forward to see the stream of kids pour out through one of the windows, among them he spots Niall with a guitar. He sits back onto the edge of the roof with interest.

Harry settles by his side and they watch the teenagers sit on the beach chairs and ground by the pool. The garden lanterns go on, lightening up the backyard, and the music must have been turned down because it's not thudding in Louis’ ears anymore. Niall stands on the barstool he must have dragged out from the house and starts trying to shush down the crowd, the guitar hanging on the strap wrapped around his upper body.

“Didn't know Niall can play guitar,” Harry says. “I love guitars.”

Louis doesn't have a response to that, so he just watches his friend finally getting the almost quiet he aimed for. Everyone's attention now focused on him..

“A’ight, people, choose wisely. I know there’s enough Niall to go around but I can’t drink while playing, and I really would like to drink. This man’s no camel.”

The noise is back as the teens try to tell Niall their requests for a song, and Louis just sits there in bewilderment watching as his friend manages to turn a Valentine's Day party to a singalong. He looks over to Harry, planning on making a joke about him joining in with the spectacle while wearing his imaginatory lace, but he stops in his tracks at the sight.

Harry's singing along and Louis starts wishing that the song will last forever, because watching Harry like this could never get boring. His profile is lit by the soft light, breath glimmering in the chilly air. His eyes crinkle with unbridled joy as he sings, smiling widely around the words of the song.

It is in this moment that Louis realises that Harry's actually _singing_ , and he's not heard a word in the harryandlouis bubble he's got going on in his head. He blinks to set his senses back online and glances down at the kids enthusiastically singing out the lyrics to what may be one of the cheesiest songs of all time.

He shakes off the feeling of longing for a normal life before his thoughts can wander down the path towards infatuation.

Instead, he pulls out his phone from the back pocket of the godforsaken jeans and opens up the contacts list.

 

 

Harry speaks _slowly_.

If you ever play a YouTube video and set it on three quarters of its speed, that would be how Harry speaks. It takes him _forever_ to tell one story and the driver is most probably going nuts in the front seat, but Louis… Well, Louis just discovered that it's very possible to be falling for someone who spends the majority of their time talking about as fast as hair grows, though he has been known to spit out words faster than Niall when he needs to take a piss when the mood strikes him.

Harry seems to be whatever he wants to, as a matter of fact. Currently the boy that Louis is beginning to find is a mess of contradictions has his back resting against the door of the cab with legs sprawled across Louis' lap, arms gesturing wildly while he talks.

“Why do zebras even have _stripes_ ? Totally impractical. I’d understand a khaki and yellow stainy pattern for the sake of camouflage, but _black and white stripes_ ? At least they’re not full-on pink and white polka dots. I actually have a pink and white polka dots shirt, you know, and it _is_ practical. Practicality is important, Lou, makes your life easier. Speaking of practicality.”

Harry leans forwards and knocks on the plastic dividing the front and back of the car.

The driver turns his head a little and nods. Seeing his expression, Louis sends up a quiet prayer to the ceiling that he will never have to meet the guy again.

“Yeah?”

“Can you please turn the music down a bit?”

The driver seems to stifle a sigh, but reaches over causing the admittedly irritating cheap pop music to drop a few decibels.

“Just a bit more, please? For me?”

The volume drops further.

“And like, a teeny tiny bit more for the endangered South China Tigers? They’d love the noble gesture of yours, I’m sure.”

A CD flies across the front of the car and bounces off the windshield.

“Thanks, queen!” Harry throws his thumbs up with no care for the fact that the man would probably rather shoot himself than say something in response. Then he pokes Louis’ thigh with the heel of his shoe before continuing his rambling. “Pay attention. Speaking of easy, you should never try to sew your mom a dress with ruffles when you don't know how to sew ruffles. Ruffles are cool, tho’, one day I'm gonna have a whole closet full of shirts with ruffles. Maybe even sheer and shiny. And long hair. Do you think I'd look good with a bun? Or braids. Braids are cool, too—”

The cab pulls up sharply and stops by the sidewalk, sending Harry nearly tumbling into Louis’ lap.

“Seventeen fifty,” the man snarls, not even turning to look as he opens the divider and holds a hand over his shoulder

“Let me,” Harry says, slapping Louis’ hand when he makes to reach to his pocket.

Louis tries to protest but he's immediately muzzled by the boy's hand on his mouth. He frowns and licks the salty skin.

“Yuck-yuck.” Harry grimaces and rapidly withdraws his arm. He untucks a few bills from his jeans and smacks them onto the driver's hand. “Thanks. Happy love day. Get yourself some chocolate, it’s good for singles. And any album that doesn’t have the stench of James Arthur.”

Then he pulls Louis by his hand and they stumble out of the car, Louis managing to keep them on their feet by some miracle.

“Are you crazy?” he huffs out, jerking his hand out of Harry's.

He overlaps the sides of the jacket and pulls them snug to ward off the biting cold of the February night. Why couldn’t he have gotten poikilothermia when his superpowers were being handed out is beyond his understanding.

“More an Ariana Grande fan. But also, yeah.”

“Better Arthur than that stench of beer on your junk.”

“It’s urine, actually. I mean, you told me to.”

Louis rolls his eyes and starts walking towards the entrance of the building, Harry by his side chattering away.

“I used to braid my sister's hair. She's gone now. Not like, gone- _gone_ , she's studying. In the UK. Or at least that's what she says. Today's youth is unpredictable, she could be a stripper in Jacksonville or a drummer in an underground band, and we'd never know. Wait, _I am_ youth. Am I unpredictable, Lou?”

“I don't know, are you?” Louis opens the tower’s double door, holding it for the boy to get in.

“Am I? I don't know.” Harry stops suddenly in front of Louis looking at him earnestly. “Did you know that the synonym of unpredictable is unforeseeable? What kinda word even is this? Un-fore-see-able.”

“Sounds about right to me,” says Louis, pushing Harry towards the elevators.

Harry stumbles a little as he walks the few steps backwards. Much to Louis’ relief, the doors open immediately, so he nods his head at the boy.

“Come on.”

“Do you like _The Lion King_ ?” Harry asks as they step into the empty space. He reaches out to press numbers nineteen and twenty. “Or _Ice Age?_ We can crash at mine and watch something. Man, I _hate_ parties.”

“That’s odd since you seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Louis points out.

Harry seemed to have fun that evening. When they eventually came down from the rooftop, Harry was almost immediately engulfed by the crowd, everyone wanting to talk to him. Louis watched as the boy tried to cut the conversions short without being rude because he promised they'd quickly sneak out and go home ('I have _classes_ tomorrow, Lou, who even throws a party in the middle of a week?’). Everybody loved Harry. There was something in the way he was able to make everyone feel important when he stood in a group. The ever present smile on his face seemed to make the air around him warm and welcoming, like a soft pink aura scented with the sweetest flowers.

Louis simply observed in awe, enchanted with this unique specimen of humanity. For a minute there he even forgot that his jeans were too tight and he was itching to go home, change into his suit, and patrol for a bit. He had to force himself to nod at Harry signaling ‘let’s go’ when the boy noticed his gaze.

“I did,” says Harry, slumping on the wall by Louis’ side.

Louis frowns, gripping on the rail behind his back and catching his own gaze in the mirror.

The half dead lighting in the elevator always makes Louis’ bone structure even more prominent, cheekbones looking almost like drew with a sharpie. They've stood out even more since the goddamn bite, the shadows cast on the hollowness underneath them. He's not self-conscious, not to the point to think he's not attractive. He's got his problems, just not with his appearance. Or at least all of it.

He glares at the shadows under his eyes. He fixes the bangs, pulling them back and to the side. The strands go back to where they were ruffled over his forehead. He _really_ should cut this ridiculous mop.

Then the words click and he looks back at Harry.

"Are you... trying to appear more likeable via pretending we have the same approach to social activities?"

Harry shrugs and cautiously eyes Louis' reflection.

"Maybe. Is it working? I admit it’s a cheap trick, like it's a rung below trying to get Justin Bieber's attention by tattooing his distorted face on your ass, but, like, I'm kinda desperate here to tap that, okay? You can say no, of course, no pressure at all, I'll just die in the closest dirty puddle if you decide I'm not worthy."

Louis feels his heart do a flip at Harry’s admission before it sinks into his stomach. He stares at the wall in front of him, simultaneously seeing through it and not seeing anything at all. _Calm down, calm down. You can subdue unwanted emotions. You're_ Spider-Man, _for God's sake._

“Hey, Lou?”

Louis blinks, clearing his blurred out vision.

Harry's standing with one of his hands sprawled on the wall, facing Louis’ profile, and he's _way_ too close. _Get a grip._

The boy steps in front of Louis, now both hands on the rail on either of Louis’ sides. Whatever Harry smells like, flowers or candies, it's stronger now that all Louis’ senses are going nuts and he takes in every detail. The little strand of hair poking out from under Harry’s ear, the gold dots on the green of his eyes, the teeny tiny hole in his headscarf, right over his temple. He observes the barely noticeable tremble of Harry's lower lip and a trace of hesitation.

Louis swallows, his mouth dry. “Harry.”

“Tell me to stop and I will. I promise. Just say the word.”

 _We met only a week ago_ , he wants to say, but the words remain in his head only.

He takes a shaky breath, only now realizing that his anxiety has hit hard and his body is starting to tremble. Something at the back of Louis’ head is screaming, and it sounds a lot like common sense.

Harry takes his silence for an invitation and leans forward, keeping an attentive look on Louis, cautiously looking for a sign of disagreement to what’s happening and what’s coming. He doesn't find any, so he brushes his nose against Louis’, sending a hot wave down his spine.

And Louis isn't drunk, he's not even tipsy, he's totally sober, but then again, when was the last time he felt a hundred percent fine? When was the last time he made a good decision?

The tension charging the space between them seems to crackle and snap. The anxiety racing its way through every inch of Louis’ body is causing him to shiver even though he isn’t cold in the slightest. Harry closes his hands around where Louis are still clutching the rail behind him in a fluid calming gesture.

Oh, boy.

Then warm, cherry plush lips press  softly against Louis’, feather-feather light and _careful_ , and sweet, and something that makes Louis’ guts twist in agony and _want_. He can’t stop another wave of trembling breath coming out of his nose, his cheeks going hot from embarrassment.

This isn’t what he’s thought it would be. They haven’t even begun, and it’s already too much.

He gasps at the second kiss, and his lips tremble at the third one, and when the fourth one comes Louis realizes that Harry doesn’t take. He offers. He asks.

So Louis does everything to translate his approval without words, reciprocating the fifth kiss, _you can take what you want_.

The rapid beat of Harry’s heart echoes in Louis’ rib cage, making him more grateful than he’s ever been for his enhanced senses, and when Harry withdraws it’s just to press their lips together once more. As he gently runs his tongue along Louis’ parted lips, he seems to be asking if that’s what he wants, all Louis can do is give a low moan in response.  

Somewhere in the back of his head, it dawns on Louis that Harry’s being careful, _patient_ with every move he makes almost as though he is afraid that any sudden movement will scare Louis off.

Louis wants to scream that he would never be scared off, wants to say that Harry can take what he wants and he’d still be asking for more, but then Harry’s hands cradle his face, teeth catching on his lower lip, before his tongue licks over the gentle bite causing Louis’ mouth to part of its own volition.

And then the kiss is wet and deep, and something Louis’ never thought he had in him, causing his breaths to get heavier with each one he takes.

His hands wander into the curls on the back of Harry's head, feeling out the silky, thick swirls, fingers hooking on the knot of the headscarf and making Harry chuckle in response, before sliding one leg between Louis’ and pressing their bodies closer.

The comfort of closing his eyes and giving into the feeling quickly turns into a series of flashes clatter at the forefront of his mind.

Police, cries, the guilt, and sleepless nights crash into him like a bucket of ice dumped over his head, making him yelp and sending Harry stumbling two steps back.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong. Shouldn’t have let this happen. Can’t lose him too._

“I'm sorry,” Louis rasps out, taking a grip of the rail behind his back once again to steady himself and praying for the control he usually has over his powers. “I can’t.”

He does look up, even if he really doesn't want to. He hurt again. He didn't mean to, but he did it _again_. He can't afford making it worse.

Harry's eyes widen in surprise and confusion as he stares at him blankly for longer than Louis feels strictly comfortable with. Then again, Louis can’t remember the last time he actually felt comfortable. He wants to leave, _now_ , but the staring is neither an answer nor a question, and he won't get away without explaining himself. He owes it to Harry.

It's when the elevator's door opens that Louis remembers where they actually are, and it’s not a rom-com.

Harry doesn't glance over when the door closes on the nineteenth floor, tenaciously maintaining eye contact. “Now, that was… Uh.”

“Unforeseeable?” Louis helps, hoping to break the tension. _Please, be cool about it._

“Yeah.” Harry smiles crookedly.

The smile’s surprisingly affectionate and almost manages to disarm Louis from all the walls he’s now trying frantically to rebuild. He still looks confused as he pushes both hands into the pockets of his jacket and looks at Louis questioningly.

“Did I do something—You know, I told you—”

“No,” Louis cuts him off. “ _Absolutely no_. It's not about you.”

“Oh, _great_ , we're in a rom-com now? What is this, _Twilight_?” Harry snorts, laughter dancing in his eyes.

Louis withholds a sigh of relief, instead playfully quirking an eyebrow.

“If we were in a rom-com, there'd be a song playing in the background.”

Harry nods, pursing his lips. “Elton John, possibly.”

“Or Mariah Carey.”

“Alternatively, Tokio Hotel.”

Louis tilts his head to the side. Out of any possible outcome to his freakout that he could have come up with, Harry's reaction is none of them.

“Look, Harry...”

Harry raises a hand. “ _Lion King_ first, talk later. Shall we?”

 

nialler, 9:56 PM

where u at???

 

nialler, 10:03 PM

did u smooch him or not i didnt play that song for myself ffs

 

nialler, 10:04 PM

also dont fuck up there, gwen says theres this non-resin tar on the roof, bitch to wash off.

 

They end up sprawled on the floor with their backs resting on the front of couch, the wooden coffee table pushed aside, and a bowl of corn chips between them.

Before that, Harry rushed to his room, changed into a black sweater with the words 'teenage runaway’ across the chest, and brought Louis a soft lilac one. Louis accepted it wordlessly even though it doesn’t match his red shirt at all before he asked about Harry's parents—his mom, it turned out, was not expected back home until midnight, and his dad was left unmentioned.

While Harry was busy looking for the pendrive that held _The Lion King_ and fixing drinks, Louis took a quick glance at the apartment. Both Harry’s and the Jones’ apartments are mirror reflections of his and Jay’s place. Same rooms, same windows just different colour choices and more boxes. Despite items still to be unpacked, the place already gives off a cozy and welcoming vibe. Louis cannot help but notice that the Styles’ appeared to be somewhat more well off.  

Turns out that Harry’s not one to shut up easily—once you click the on button, it's really hard to find the off one. He comments on the movie, sings along to _Hakuna_ _Matata_ and _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_ , and asks Louis stupid questions, as though the events in the elevator had never happened.

“Who would you prefer to date? Scar or Mufasa? Mufasa’s just sex appeal at its finest. Does this sound unhealthy of me? On an unrelated note, I do _not_ recommend baked ants. Taste worse than deep fried shoe laces. Did you know that in the early drafts Scar had no relation to Mufasa? But then the writers thought that if they related Mufasa with Scar it would  be a threat from within. That made Simba the first animated Disney character to have a villain as a biological relative.”

There’s a lot of unrelated notes in Harry’s speeches, the topics disconnected from on another, as if there’s a blizzard of thoughts in his head and he’s just picking random ones to vocalise. It’s oddly endearing and attention-pulling, making Louis focus on keeping up with the changes of subject instead of fixating on what had happened and making plans for what he can say to make things right again. He’s grateful, to say the least. He can wait.

As one listens and the other talks, it becomes clear that Harry’s the only one watching the film while Louis watches Harry. Whether Harry’s aware of this or not, he doesn’t blush or turns his head away, leaving Louis free to examine. Louis catches the glimmer in his joyful eyes and can't unhear the thud of not his heart in his chest. The pain of knowing he made a mistake and the bliss found in the moment coalesce in a heavy burden he knows that he'll carry for a while.

He tries to brush it off as a one-time make out session. After all, they're teenagers. Teenagers do this kind of stuff. At least, that's what Louis hears at school and sees on the internet. He hasn't practiced it himself, not when he doesn't consider this part of the teenage agenda his cup of tea. Zayn was a one-time thing he promised to never repeat given the three days of deep anxiety experienced afterwards.

The film ends sooner than it should, and it's only when Louis looks aside at the darkness behind the window that he realises he should be patrolling. That there are lives to be saved and his ass is sit in a living room of an apartment of a guy he barely knows.

Splendid.

“I win, you know?” Harry nudges his knee with his. His voice is quieter now, questions hiding in the way he speaks slowly again.

Louis frowns. “What?”

“That challenge. I won. Unless… Unless, you know, you didn’t want to and I pressured you, in which case I’m so fucking sorry? You’re shaking, by the way, is that normal?”

Louis crosses his arms protectively, almost hugging himself. Here goes nothing.

“Medically speaking, it’s just a result of persistently elevated stress levels caused by being overly anxious. I think I’m fine but I’m not. Also you didn’t pressure me, what kinda stupid question, I, uh.” His voice cracks a little, and he pauses to clear his throat. “I don’t mean to sound all poor Hollywood, but it's not about you, okay? I'm...” He rubs his ribs, fingers digging between the bones. “The thing is, I don't wanna kiss you.”

“Why, because it's going too fast?”

“No, because I know I'm gonna like you.”

Harry looks at the ceiling as if it's gonna answer why Louis' explanations never add up. Won't work. Louis' tried. With the walls, too.

“That's supposed to make a lot of sense, I guess. Excuse me if I don't see it, I have this allergy to the it's-not-you-it's-me strategy. My eyes turn off at the sight.”

“What does not make sense is me involving… Look, I’m a bit messed up, ‘kay?”

"We’re all messed up, Lou." He reaches for one of the corn chips from the mostly untouched bowl. “That's what makes us not boring. Being screwed in the head is a universal thing. No shame in that.”

“That doesn’t mean I can just do something I didn’t want to do. Not in an I-felt-obliged-to-respond way. I’m just not looking for a relationship, alright? Can we just, uh.” Louis scratches his thigh. “Maybe… forget it ever happened?”

“We sure can.” Harry nods. “Even if I don't wanna.”

He shifts on the floor and sits criss cross in a way that allows him to face Louis. His eyes are soft and peaceful, a bit sleepy and dazed, but there's also some hurt in them. And damn it, Louis really didn't want to _hurt_ anyone, especially not _him_.

Louis’ voice is husky when he speaks again.

“Alright.”

“But what's wrong with remembering it, though?” Harry looks down at his entwined hands like he's searching for a hidden answer in them. “Just tryin’ to level with you here. I’m not asking you to change your mind for me, I think I’d just like to know what’s so bad about remembering nice stuff?”

“I realize that it's the screw-ups that make us interesting but I can't afford more of them, Harry, alright? Once confronted with a situation that's nice but can make you feel bad you have to make a choice. It's not about me not wanting it, it's about what's right. As I said, I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Harry hums. “You’re asexual? Aromantic? If you’re an alien, I still won a bet.”

Louis shakes his head, suppressing a smile.

“No, none of that. I just can’t have someone who’d expect me to care and give them my time. I don’t have much of it, you know? And I’m not looking for distractions.” Louis takes a deep, unsteady breath, realizing he begins to sound angrier than what he is saying warrants. He's not going to take his stupidity out on Harry. "Harry, I’m starting to like you. You're a nice, pretty guy, and I'm positive your eyes are illegal and your hair is too soft to be real,” he gives the boy a smile, even if he doesn't see it, “but I can't do the strangers to lovers trope, or whatever it is. I don't even try to make friends.” He sprawles his hands flat on his ribcage and hugs himself tighter. “I’ve got Niall, and there’s like two other guys I talk to sporadically, outside of that I don’t give people time or attention. As much as I'd like to make out and get to know you better right now, it’ll be for the best for us to remain friends. I don’t wanna hurt you by being starting something and then being absent and not able to follow through. And please, tell me if I'm embarrassing myself and it was just a no-big-deal kind of a make out session, and I’m just—Tell me to stop, please.”

Looking back at Harry he realises his eyes weren't even on him while he was speaking. Louis catches the flash of disappointment crossing his face. He hasn't thought there’s a possibility that  Harry would be sad, but now that it's happening right in front of him, he feels like stabbing himself for being the cause of it.

What didn't he like about being an average human being? He dreamt of being a superhero, doing cool things, but he didn’t realize that the cool things come in hand in hand with a lot of uncool stuff like the impossibility of keeping your private life ordinary and ultra sleep deprivation as a cherry on top.

Harry is fiddling with his fingers, eyes focused on nothing in particular.

“It wasn't. For me it wasn't no big deal. I know you want it to be, but the feeling’s mutual. I hoped for something more than a one-time half hook up. And sure.”

“Sure.” Louis frowns. “Sure what?”

“Sure, we can be friends,” Harry explains.

“That’s all I have to offer. Take it or leave it,” Louis jokes, but the attempt to lighten the tone fails miserably. “For the record, hey.” He reaches out to tilt the boy's head up with two fingers under his chin, picking up on his sped up heartbeat as he does so. When their eyes meet, he gives him a soft smile. “You're the _prettiest_ boy I've ever met, alright? And I need you to get it through your head 'cause I won't repeat myself.”

“Jeez, harsh.” Harry’s brows wander up.

“If we're gonna be friends, we gotta set some boundaries,” Louis explains, watching the pink coloring Harry's cheeks. His hand itches to touch more of the boy's skin, but that’s a big no. “ _Numero_ _uno_ , compliments are strictly forbidden.”

Harry muffles a smile, the corners of his lips twitching.

“What?”

“And this smile?” Louis taps the boy's lips with his finger, letting go of his chin and clicking his tongue. “Off. I don't wanna see it. You don't want me to accidentally fall for you, do ya?”

“Okay, okay, you’re ridiculous, but okay.” Harry waves a hand, puffing out a soft laugh. Louis wants to comment on the adorableness of it and how he thinks it should also be on the list, but the other boy speaks first. “My request is no more of those.” He points to the killer black skinnies. “They're illegal.”

“They're not, but they so _should_ be.” Louis sighs, looking down at his crotch. “I think my balls have taken up residence next to my kidney, pretty sure I saw them shopping in the beds aisle at IKEA, and my—”

“For the love of grilled pickles,” Harry cuts him off, “I don't need details about the adventures of your junk.” He nods forward. “Anyways, m’ talkin’ about the section behind.”

Louis suppresses a grin and rubs his nose. “Number four is _please_ button up your shirts.”

“Unrealistic.” Harry pouts.

“It’s _winter_.”

“It’s a fashion statement.”

“One button more?” Louis tries to bargain.

“Under one condition, though.”

Louis holds Harry’s gaze, but something has shifted in the air and he realises he's not touching the couch with his back anymore, and he doesn't even know when he started leaning forward. He squints a little, trying to decipher the smug look taking over Harry’s half flirtatious, half sad expression.

For a split of a second he feels his heart clench a little, realising how bittersweet the moment is. He’s going to savour it while it lasts, but he already takes it for granted that won’t happen again.

“Shoot,” he says daringly

Harry licks his lips. “But you gotta come here, the walls have ears.”

It's such bullshit, and Louis knows that Harry won't say a thing, he knows _exactly_ what will happen.

Just one last mistake.

He shifts on the floor to sit on his heels in front on Harry, keeping their eyes locked the whole time watching as his pupils begin to dilate. Louis catches the dark hooded gaze and that's it.

Then there are hands on his shaking hands, and then there's a palm on Louis' neck, and a mouth on his mouth, and little kisses against his lips, then teasing on one lip at a time, his head pulled backwards, a breath fanning across the shell of his ear, and hot velvet on his throat, and he just allows it, busy letting out needy, almost embarrassing noises.

He can't help the quiet, freaking _trembling_ moan escaping his throat at the sensation of Harry's tongue on his, all of his enhanced senses going completely insane - Harry's heart is beating in _his_ ribcage and his breath is Louis’ breath.

Harry whispers something, the words getting lost on Louis’ lips. It sounds like 'tomorrow’, but who is he to care right now.

 

 

Later as he swings furiously around the buildings of Manhattan, he tries to make a list of all the mistakes he’s made, but every time he remembers the feeling of Harry's fingers digging into the flesh of his denim-covered hips and his hands sneaking under the sweater to get the most he could of Louis’ skin, he loses his count.

He gets beaten up this night, too distracted by the mistakes running through his mind and anger blurring his sight, winding  up with a serious cut on his cheek and several bruises on his back.

“You know you deserve that,” he grits out, burrowing under the sheets of the top bunk at four thirty in the morning, arms burning from exhaustion and heart squeezed into a single teardrop.

And the ghosted feeling of plush cherry lips on his.

 

**February the 15th, Thursday**

 

Louis may be many things, all of which are stuffed into his five-foot-seven body, but being great at waiting is not one of them.

He's been standing on the sidewalk for over ten minutes now, and for the last eight of those he's been either tapping his fingers on the nearest wall or pacing, shuffling the fresh snow under his feet. Passers-by pay him no mind, so he's free to mutter nonsense under his breath and play with the phone in his hands.

He's reciting the words for tomorrow's Italian quiz pretty mindlessly, all of them already familiar from the Italian and Spanish soap operas his Aunt used to watch when he was a kid. At some point they switched to _House_ , but the language had remained.

His lips have started to twitch, signaling that impatience has begun to segue into nervousness. He bites on his lower lip, hoping that this will calm the tremble, but without success.

Stretching his sore back, he looks at the phone again, just in case Tony sent him a message and he magically didn't notice, but there's nothing other than the text he got at five this morning saying '7am'.

It’s as he's tucking the mobile into the pocket of his sweats and wondering if he unconsciously committed an act of cannibalism he can’t remember, and that’s what has drawn enough attention for a man who’s been radio silent on him for months to now text him casually, that a red Audi R8 pulls up smoothly to the curb.

Tony Stark may not even be able to draw the attention of the pedestrians, but Louis still feels the stress weighing on his guts as he approaches the vehicle. One window slides halfway down.

"Come on, skip in," Tony says cheerily, leaning over with a smile.

At the quiet click of the lock releasing, Louis opens the door, drops his backpack on the floor, and slides into the passenger seat, trying his best to not freak out. Not often does one have a chance to sit in one of Tony Stark's babies. He quickly takes in the lavish interior, his gaze pausing at the holographic HUD before his attention is pulled back to the man himself.

"I appreciate you also chose to rock hobo chic. Wouldn't like to feel underdressed," Tony comments as he watches Louis fasten the seatbelt.

Louis looks down at his black tracksuit bottoms, too big red hoodie, and the kevlar shoes. Classy. He’s got his fur lined jean jacket thrown on overtop, he didn’t really care that it doesn’t match the rest of the outfit as long as it covered up the faded hickey on his neck.

He's just glad that Jay was out to work and couldn’t make him wear a button up and a tie.

Then he eyes Tony's equally large white sweater with Black Sabbath logo and rolled up sleeves, and jeans that may look worn out but most probably cost as much as half of Louis wardrobe combined. His goatee is perfect as always, but the hair is ruffled, like he didn't even bother to comb it before heading out.

The look is a stark contrast to the businessman attire he had been rocking the last time they had met, much more cool dad casual. He seems more relaxed and is presenting a less professional attitude to what he had shown back in April. While he has never treated Louis as less than an equal when they had met, the fact that he is one of the richest and most important individuals on the planet was embedded in the way that he carried himself. It's not the case now, as the man's soft eyes only show he’s here as… just Tony. Not the public persona, but a real flesh and blood man.

Louis must look weird in the way he’s staring in silence, because the man pokes his thigh with the knuckles of his hand.

"You look good, relax," Tony laughs. "Starbucks? McDonald’s?"

Louis quirks an eyebrow.

“What?” The man frowns. “I hate rich white people food.”

Content that he won’t receive a 'aren't you too young to drink coffee’ lecture, Louis gives him a small smile.

"Starbucks. McDonald's been sellin' some sludge recently."

Tony hums in agreement.

"FRIDAY, nearest Starbucks, if you please," he says, leaning back and making himself comfortable in the seat.

" _Sure thing, boss_ ," a female voice echoes in the car, making Louis jump. " _Would you like me_ _to place an order?"_

"No need, we'll come inside."

 

 

"What did you tell your aunt?" Stark asks conversationally once they're seated in the corner of the crowded cafe.

The chatter from the other patrons is loud, even louder in Louis' head as he frowns and glances around, looking for secret cameras.

"Uh, is this a test? Avengers trial?" he tries. "I mean, you did send her a message yourself."

"Oh, so you _do_ know how to exchange information. Excellent." Tony smiles, leaning forward. "Let's try this with me now. Why do I get to hear about an old man buying you a hot dog for saving him from a car crash, and about plain vanilla midnight patrols, but get a grand total of zero accounts regarding your injuries and insomnia?"

Louis stares for a few seconds until the man's forceful gaze becomes unbearable. He senses Tony looking at the half healed scar under his eye and starts fiddling with his fingers, suddenly feeling the ache of the couple of bruises on his back. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

When he glances back up, the man's face is colored in worry. He didn't expect Tony to _care_. And if he remembers correctly, his occasional patrol reports always end up on some random answering machine.

"Did you put a vital signs monitor in my suit, Mister Stark?" Louis asks, suddenly understanding where the question has came from. “That’s kinda creepy.”

"I put, well, everything in that suit," Tony agrees. "You're toting around a multimillion dollar onesie and you thought I'm not monitoring it?”

There's something in his eyes, though, that tells Louis the man is worried about something other than money. It's in the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he tries to play smart-assed and the joking tone isn't really there.

Louis doesn't answer, eyes shifting to the view behind the window. He hopes Tony won't interpret it as rude, he just really doesn't know what to say at this moment.

His feels as though his neurons have been missing since he was woken up after only an hour of sleep by Jay reaching up to the top bunk and tapping his shoulder at five twenty in the morning to announce that the previous day she had gotten a message from 'this Tony Stark' about how he wants to have a private talk with Louis today.

Once awake, Louis shuffled to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and wave his aunt goodbye as she headed off to work, his hair covering the partially healed cut on his forehead. God bless America and the hobo hairdo. He almost cried while standing by the coffee machine and then nearly smashed the cup against the nearest wall, but given that he was more well raised than hysterical, he just slipped on a hoodie he found in the laundry and climbed out of the window to sit on the cold wall. It began to snow as he took the first sips of his drink, the snowflakes melting when they touched his socked feet and bare, bruised hands.

He was painfully aware of Harry's window a few meters on his right, but steadfastly ignored it. Rather he stared down at Queens Boulevard, the coffee warming up his throat and miserably failing to wash away the taste of lips that were not his own.

He stayed there, looking without really paying attention, spaced out, until he saw Lou Teasdale, a woman living on the first floor. Her exit made it clear that it was six thirty in the morning.

" _Kid_. Hey, kid," Tony's voice tears Louis out of his dull thoughts.

He blinks a few times, his gaze focusing back on the man across him. "Present."

"And I’m Princess Fiona." Tony frowns. "How long did you sleep today? You look tired. Your hands are shaking.”

His whole body is shaking, to be more specific. Anxiety is so much fun.

"I’m not tired. And, uh..." Louis fixes his gaze on the paper cup in his hands. He wants to lie, but now that he knows about the vitals monitor, he figures there's no point in it. "Like an hour?"

Tony pauses with his sandwich halfway to his mouth.

"And yesterday?" he digs.

"Two? I dunno." Louis takes a sip of his coffee, one arm curling protectively around his waist as he leans back and slouches. He feels like he's having one of those infamous parent-kid talks he's never gotten the pleasure to go through and hasn't necessarily been looking forward to.

"Do I want to go back further than the past two days?"

"It's not like you need me to answer." He shrugs, eyes drifting away. “Ask the suit."

"Quit."

"Amazing advice. Pretend I'm gonna do that."

"Mister Tomlinson, look at me."

Louis sighs and shifts his gaze back. Tony's leaning forward, the sandwich placed back by his hands untouched, grip transferred back to the paper cup. The hint of worry in his expression a few minutes ago is now much more pronounced. His eyes are scanning the boy, searching for more injuries, both internal and external, his brows knitted together in concern.

"How old are you again?" he asks.

Louis grabs a napkin from the holder, focusing his gaze on it as he starts rolling the cotton. "Depends. Spiritually or physically?"

"Look." Tony takes a short breath. "I know that you wanna help. Fight baddies, save the world. That's what you think heroes do. And, well, I mean, it is.” He leans back, one hand free now to gesture as he speaks. “I know you’re probably thinking we’re all perfect up there in the compound, but we’re really not, kid. We’re all flawed human beings, except for Vision, Vision’s just an upgraded toaster, but we’re all trying to learn, and grow, and evolve, we go through the same bullshit as everybody else. We go out there, put our ass on the line, fight aliens and whatever else this world throws at us. We fight, and we try to win. It seems like our duty to use what we can do for good. To protect the ones who can’t protect themselves.” He pauses to watch Louis create a circle with the torn napkin for several seconds. “Look, I know school is a hellhole. I know that you would rather hero around. You’re young, too young even, yet I still let you swing around. However, I’m having a hard time coping with the fact that you’re beginning to spend too much time on your patrols. How can you kick asses if you’re struggling with keeping your eyes open?”

“I don’t spend too much time on patrols,” Louis argues weakly.

“You do.”

“I'm alright,”

“No, you're _not_." Tony eyes him strongly enough for Louis to feel his gaze burn his skin. The man must sense the boy's discomfort because his voice is softer when he speaks again. "You want to take this somewhere else?"

Louis nods and they pack their stuff up, then leave, eyes of the patrons on their backs and two untouched sandwiches handed to the homeless man sitting a few metres away from the entrance.

 

 

Located in Midtown Manhattan, Stark Tower would definitely overshadow Oscorp if they stood side by side. It’s massive, made predominantly of smooth panels of glass and metal, the tower tapers up on towards one side, with a large platform and a few wider floors close to the top. The Stark logo glows in blue at the height of the platform, not as prominent now as it is during the  nights when Louis pauses on a random roof to cast it a glance.

Louis stares up with undisguised awe, even though he's seen the tower on uncountable occasions.

“Is it true it’s only powered by an arc reactor?” he asks as they drive up towards the back of the building, his spirits lifted a bit. “Self-sustaining clean energy?”

He knew the tower was to be the first completely clean energy-powered skyscraper in Manhattan ever since they wrote about it in the press. He remembers running to his Uncle with the paper to share the news, both of them dreaming about the whole city being one day powered by clean energy, and Aunt Jay smacking Dan with a cloth because he was supposed to be changing the lightbulbs in the bathroom.

"Precisely." Stark nods. "First on the planet. Most of the place is just R&D, labs, rooms, canteens, and so on. We,” he pauses to take the wheel, turning the autopilot off, “are going downstairs."

He stops the car in front of a wall that for Louis is just… a metallic wall. Sure, there is driveway leading to it, but still. A wall.

Just when he's about to ask Tony if—perchance—he's not on magic mushrooms, the wall sinks into the ground revealing a tunnel going below the road level and spiraling to the right.

Louis slurps the rest of his coffee as the car smoothly rolls down all the way into what turns out to be a huge, _huge_ room.

"Holy _crap_ ," he breathes out, happy that he already swallowed the drink. He would be spitting it out now if he didn't. He starts looking around as Tony parks the car by the entrance. _Holy crap_.

The man grins at his unbridled enthusiasm. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"This is..." Louis seeks for a proper word as the dead part of brain slowly starts working again. " _Insane_. Wow."

They step out of the Audi into the workshop slash lab, Louis with cautiousness like he's walking on thin glass.

The room is roughly the size of a school gym and is full of meticulously placed machinery. Robotic arms are interspersed with sky blue holograms, while metal and glass desks have three dimensional projections either above them or on the top itself. Two different Iron Man suits stand like guards on either side of a glass door that leads to a small corridor holding a staircase visible through two window panels. Everything is sleek black, grey and silver, the holograms emitting a weak turquoise glow like a cherry on top of the prettiest cake.

The workshop is at least twenty feet high, lit by long, slim panels running the length of the ceiling and the holograms give off enough of a glow for the place to emanate an oddly warm, comfortable space.

"You brought the suit, right?" Tony asks, elbowing Louis' shoulder and breaking him out of his trance.

Louis nods and slides the backpack down his arms. He pulls the suit out of the inner pocket, part of him feeling like he's tearing out his own heart as he hands it out to Stark. Who knew that a piece of material would become such a big deal for him?

"Alright." The man starts walking, checking the suit for surface damage. There is none, thanks to the suit’s resistance to small knives and general cuts which Louis appreciates. He isn’t sure what would happen with bullets, he hasn’t taken one yet, and he’s not willing to try. Tony stretches one limp arm between his hands as Louis pads behind him, both of them weaving through the holograms. "First things first, we're gonna check on a few things, and if you behave, I may happen to have something for you."

They stop by a semicircular, metallic desk spanning over two and a half metres wide with four screens built into the curve of the flat surface. Tony plops down on the only stool in the sight and rolls forward.

"For me?" Louis frowns, slinging the backpack over one shoulder.

"FRIDAY, you with us?"

Stark snaps his fingers, probably more for fun than necessity, and the screens light up. Each shows a combination of lines, numbers, and drawings that Louis would have to focus on to understand, but the left one is projecting the outlines of his suit, so that’s where his eyes go.

" _For you always, boss_ ," the same female voice answers. " _Good morning, Mister Tomlinson_."

"Hi," Louis welcomes the AI. This is so strange, talking to something or someone who isn't physically there, but is still able to see, hear and likely feel you. Talk about creepy.

"Sorry, kid, I got just one stool here," says Tony as he fiddles with the suit. He gets to the USB port located in the underside of the sternum area, and plugs in a cable coming out from the side of the desk.

"You’ve got all this stuff worth billions of dollars, and... and one stool?"

Tony turns his head slightly to give Louis a short glance. He considers the question quickly, blinks, and nods. "Yeah."

Louis sighs. He’s not gonna stand here like a statue, not for free.

"Can I get a web-shooter?"

Fifteen seconds later, he is hanging upside down by Tony's shoulder ('you _freak_ me out, kid'), his backpack and jacket thrown on the floor, busy checking on all the data showing up on the screens. The man has engaged all the screens to display the suit’s protocols, so it's a lot of information to take in, but it’s made easier thanks to Louis' enhanced senses and Tony's brain.

"What are we doing?" Louis asks, watching Tony tap on the hologram keyboard and slide icons across the screens.

"Taking care of you. Which translates to searching for potential damage." The man straightens up and looks aside. "Dummy! Hey, Dummy!” He whistles. “Make yourself useful, two coffees, milk in one."

Louis watches in bewilderment as a robotic arm standing in the corner of the lab wheezes quietly and _nods_ with its single arm, then turns to the kitchenette that he didn't see before.

“Is that Dum-E? I love Dum-E,” he says before even realises what he’s saying. God, why is he like this? “I mean, I read about it in… on the Internet,” he stutters, darting his gaze away from Tony. “I know that you first made it in your dad's workshop, and then modified it over the years, and, okay, I am shuttin’ up now.” Then his eyes fall to the area by the kitchenette. "Wait, you said you got only one stool.”

Tony looks at him with a barely suppressed grin. "Those are armchairs, kid.”

"This is… unbelievable." Louis shakes his head, finally understanding why they get along easily. They seem to have the same kind of humor, which is great, but also makes him worry they'll collide eventually.

"Use that upside downsie as a party trick to woo ladies and gentlemen. Trademark the upside down smooch.” Tony waves a hand at him. “Now would you mind _please_ coming back down here and acting like a human being?”

"Only if you get up here and act like a spider, Mister Stark, don't be spiderphobic." The boy tightens the hug he's got on his chest in order to hold the hoodie in its place. His gaze shifts to the middle screen which is currently showing the mechanism of his web-shooters, his head parallel to Tony's again.

"It's Tony, kid, Mister Stark was my father." The man follows his gaze, already forgetting his little request. "How did you come up with these, anyways?"

Louis shrugs. “Saw that spider and decided to die on that rock.”

“I meant the mechanics but I admire your dedication. It’s a pretty impressive invention, you know.” Tony turns back to look at the boy. “You developed something that would set you up for the rest of your life if you sold it. I myself would pay for the system and the webbing. It’s worth millions, I can tell you that. As I said, the tensile strength is off the charts. It could be marketed really well.”

“But then that wouldn’t be my thing,” Louis points out. “Imagine Captain America without his shield? Also, not everything is about money, Mister Stark.”

“You could literally make a fortune from the webbing on its own but you refuse to for the sake of what, the aesthetic?”

“For the sake of being me. I want to earn money in an average way.”

“You could live your life in bathing in dollars, but you don’t want to use your powers to be that guy. I’ve got to say, you have my respect.” Tony glances back at the monitors. “The mechanics. Tell me about it.”

Louis gives him a look. “But you already know how that works.”

“You were sixteen when you made those. I want _you_ to tell me about it. I want to know how.”

“Okay, so, uh.” Louis glances at the screens to help himself find words. “It took a bit of dumpster diving behind Oscorp and digging through the stuff that aliens left back after they crashed Manhattan. I needed the material, you know, it’s not like it’s being handed out on the streets, and I don’t have this kind of money. The spinnerets were machined from stainless steel. The turbine component was made from a block of teflon, and the two turbine bearings are amber and artificial sapphire, and something I couldn’t identify because, well, aliens. The wristlets and web-fluid cartridges are mainly nickel-plated annealed brass. The—”

“Where did you make those?” Tony interrupts, squinting a little. There’s some undisguised awe crossing his face, and Louis feels himself blush a little.

“At school, mostly. During the lab-workshop class and after classes. Just read a bit about aerodynamics in Doctor Richard's book. The system in web-shooters relies on air pressure and spinnerets, so it was useful. And a bit of doctor Banner's stuff about bioorganics, 'cause I had to extract the molecules of some spiders’ webs which required—”

"Wait," Tony cuts in, turning in his chair and rolling back a bit to face Louis as much as  possible with the boy hanging upside down. "You read _Reed's_ _papers_?"

"Well, I understood only like, ninety percent of it?" Louis scratches his head, for a second forgetting why he kept his hands to himself in the first place. The hoodie falls halfway down to his ribs, so he quickly fixes it and grabs back on the web, arms close to the chest. "I was only sixteen then, so like..." He pouts.

Tony stares in undisguised disbelief that quickly segues into pride.

"Do I get it right? You were _sixteen_ and read Reed Richard's work on advanced aerodynamics and Bruce Banner's work on bioorganics?"

"And... yours on engineering," Louis adds, nodding and a bit perplexed.

“You read my papers?”

He nods. “Your papers are awesome.”

"How smart exactly are you, kid?"

Not smart enough to know better than making out with a guy who he cannot have. _Twice_.

Louis considers the question for a couple of seconds, thinking if he ought to tell about the internet IQ tests.

"You know those drawings of Earth in geography books?" he asks instead. Tony nods. "Until I was, like, four, for _so_ _long_ I thought that the same people who knew every moon of Saturn could draw only one half of Earth and didn't know what the other half looks like.”

Tony fails to suppress a smile, beaming at Louis with what seems to be happiness and curiosity. Whatever it is, it cracks a little at the invisible mentor-student barrier between them. He appears to be genuinely pleased with what Louis chose to represent himself with, it's in the way he slightly tilts his head to the side, trying to keep the eye contact despite the difference of horizontal orientation, and in the crinkles by his eyes as he keeps the smile on his lips.

Louis' been inefficiently looking for a mentor in every teacher he's ever met. For all of them however it was his grades that mattered, his ability to keep their school profile high and to have something to brag about. He doesn't see this in Tony, and while that's what makes him feel somewhat unsettled he’s relieved that he didn't make a goof of himself.

The silence is broken by clattering coming from the corner of the lab. Both Louis and Tony turn their heads to get a look at Dummy carrying a tray with two cups to the coffee table standing by the kitchenette.

"You are a _tragedy_ ," says Tony with an emphasis on each word. "Come on, kid, let's try to keep you awake."

He gestures at Louis and gets up from his stool. Louis does a lazy flip and lands softly on the floor. He fixes the hoodie and trackies, and follows Tony between the holograms until they reach the kitchenette.

At the mention of being kept awake, Louis suddenly feels exhaustion roll over his body coupled with the pain in his back. He rubs his cheek, looking for the scar from a few hours ago, and finds almost completely smoothed out flesh.

He doesn't pay attention to his sleep schedule on daily basis, he doesn't even look in the mirror too often, but last time he checked he had sunken eyes and hair that still need to be cut. Jay has been asking him to take a nap but he's been waving her off with 'later' or 'gotta study for this and that'.

Come to think of it, his appearance may be the reason why teachers are sending him long worried glances. It could also be because he quit all extracurriculars and started taking short naps during classes. Pick your favorite.

His thoughts circle back to Harry again as he starts questioning the boy's eyesight. How can he possibly think Louis looks decent enough to even walk near, let alone make out with? It’s seems like such an impossibility in this moment that Louis starts considering that he’s made up the past few crazy days. Maybe today is still Thursday from a week ago and he's never met Harry? If so, it’s been a hell of an odd dream.

"Kid, you with me?" Tony's voice breaks his trance before he gets to thinking of yesterday again.

He realises that they're now sitting in leather, round armchairs, the glass coffee table with two cups between them.

"Yeah." He nods, grabbing one drink and pulling knees to his chest. He checks on Tony's reaction to his not so gentleman-like behavior, but the man simply takes his own cup and lifts one leg to rest his chin on the knee, the other leg bouncing up and down as he stands the cup between his thighs.

Tony stares at him for what feels like forever, lips moving as he's biting the insides of his mouth in a nervous manner. Louis realises that no matter how cocky and badass Tony is, he's probably never had to be the actual adult in a conversation.

Louis feels his eyes flutter close, the lack of sleep from previous months and stress finally washing out whatever it is that has been holding him awake, overriding even the caffeine in his blood. He muffles a yawn, headache thumping in his temples.

"Got a couch I can crash on?"

Tony's face softens. He nods and gets up from his seat. A thought crosses Louis’ mind when Tony starts leading him towards the glass door, a few steps away from the kitchenette, that he would love to spend more time with him.

Whatever the man is saying now, though, because he _is_ saying something, will have to wait until he wakes up, because it appears that he's falling asleep right here and now as he’s walking.

 

 

He wakes up to Tony sitting by his legs and patting his shoulder. Louis doesn’t even get to take a breath after struggling to open his eyes before he’s asked a question.

“Morning, bed-head. What can I do for you?”

He yawns. “You don’t have to do anything for me.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Tony frowns, getting up from the couch and settling on the chair by the long glass table. “What can I do for you?”

Louis rises from where he’s lying, still a bit disoriented after the long nap, and sits criss cross, yawning. “A cup of coffee would do.”

“Still not listening.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Tony leans back, tilting his head a bit. He must have been out and about when Louis was sleeping, because he changed into a white shirt and a red zip-up hoodie, and his feet are bare. It feels oddly domestic except for the fact that it’s not.

“Lab it is, then.”

“Excuse me?” Louis rubs his eyes, trying to comprehend the words.

“I’ve just had a brand new workshop built at my new mansion. I don’t even use this one that often. So I say, you take it.”

Louis’ hand drops on his thigh. He blinks. “ _What_?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“So?” Tony rolls the left sleeve of his hoodie.

Louis shakes his head. “I can’t take it. It’s too much.”

“I’m a very rich man, you know, I wouldn’t even notice this happening.”

He glances up to meet the man’s eyes. “But _I_ would. I already told you, Mis—Tony, I want to earn things on my own.”

Tony frowns again, straightening and resting his elbows on his knees. He seems to be considering something for a minute, and only then he speaks up, looking back at the boy.

“Louis. Listen to me. You’re a smart kid. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but if anyone’s worked hard enough to have their own workshop, if anyone deserves it, it’s you. I feel responsible for you, whether you like it or not. You’re swinging in my suit—”

“I didn’t want that suit,” Louis reminds him.

“—and it’s all I could give you at the moment to protect you. I’d almost had a stroke when FRIDAY showed me the footage of you rolling through the city in nothing but a hoodie and trackies. And I know that making webs in your room is fun, but I want you to have what you need. Not because I can give it to you, but because I _want_ you to have it. I could wrap the stuff up and donate them to MIT, but I want _you_ to have it. School is made for average minds, and you’re not average. You need space and tools that would expand your knowledge instead of cutting it short to the books at a high school library. You can do everything there. You can ameliorate the web fluids you’ve been sending me. I’ll have FRIDAY...”

“You’ve been getting my emails?”

“...order mannequins for you so maybe you can try and make a suit. You’ll be supplied with anything you need. Anything. Just ask. I want you to have this lab. Got it?”

Louis opens his mouth to say words of a weak attempt of protest, but he’s interrupted by ringing in the backpack lying on the floor by the couch. He glances at Tony questioningly, and the man nods, looking at Louis like he just asked if bananas grow on the moon.

He find his phone in the side pocket while the man gets up from his chair and approaches the kitchen. Louis follows his tracks and picks up, aiming for a cupboard that may contain dishes.

“Hey, Jay! What’s up?”

“Hi, angel. Just wanted to call in and ask how the internship’s going? Have a couple minutes of break.”

"It's good," Louis admits, his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he pads through the kitchen with two cups in his hands. “Better than good.”

Tony smiles at him from where he's standing by the coffee machine.

"Oh?" Jay asks curiously. There are some honks in the background on the other side of the phone, he guesses she's outside of the hospital. Her shift should be over soon since it’s almost two, so maybe he'll get to eat dinner with her.

"Yeah, I—I think… I think I just got my own workshop."

It takes a lot for him to not scream this out. He hears Tony hum The Clash under his breath, and he's pretty sure it's the same song as his ringtone.

"Oh, my _God_ , that's amazing, sweetheart!" Jay chirps, genuine happiness coloring her voice.

Louis grins, standing the cups on the countertop next to Tony and rubbing off the sleep from his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"It's in Manhattan, though, but Mister Stark says the train tickets will be covered by the September Foundation.”

Tony sends him a smirk before he presses a button of the coffee machine.

"That's so wonderful, Louis, I'm so happy for you. You so deserve it."

"I… Thanks, Jay." Louis hops on the shiny, dark countertop, taking his phone into hand. "When are you home?"

"In like two hours, sweetheart." There's a sound of closing door, she probably comes back inside. "Anything special you want for dinner?"

"Pizza?" he suggests.

"I wanted to say I have a new recipe to try out, but I think we both know how it'll end up." She laughs.

Louis does know.

"Yeah," he replies fondly, starting to realize how much he misses his aunt. "Is _House_ on today?”

"I think so," she says. "I gotta go, Boo Bear, see you at home."

"I'll take care of the pizza,” he offers.

"Okay." He can hear her smile. "Bye!"

"Bye, Jay!"

He slides the phone to the pocket of his trackies and looks aside at a smirking Tony.

"I can't believe you have the _House_ theme song as your ringtone," the man says, putting the second cup in the place of the first, already full one.

"You know the show?" Louis rests against the countertop and loosely grips on the edge of it.

“Kid, I watched every episode while you were in diapers.”

“I’m seventeen. Almost eighteen. Your math makes no sense.”

Tony quirks a brow. “You’re gonna say that with a straight face to the guy who built a suit of armor in a cave?”

Louis chuckles, looking around the dining room. He didn’t have a chance to take a good glance at the place since he basically sleepwalked in here.

The room is huge, mostly ecru, and—like everything else in the tower—ultramodern, dominated by a long glass table in the very center and the art deco chandelier hanging above it. Only a few chairs are standing by one side of the table, the other occupied by a long, also modern but comfortable enough to sleep on couch, and an armchair at the top of it. The mismatched furniture shouldn't look good, but it somehow it works.

Tony approaches him with the cup of steaming coffee and stands beside him and they fall into silence, sipping their drinks unhurriedly.

Louis’ subconsciousness hums happily at Harry's taste being gone from his mouth. When he's done, he puts the empty cup into the sink and walks towards the table. He gets to his backpack lying on a chair and grabs the suit hung on the backrest.

Tony pats him on the shoulder. “Let's go back down, I'll show you around.”

 

 

"Mis—Tony, mind if I ask a question?" Louis asks, skidding quickly in order to fall into step with the man after they exit the elevator at the end of the corridor underground.

Tony opens the glass door to the workshop with a code and a handprint on a hologram by the door.

“Next time you’re here, just put your hand on the scanner and set your own password,” he instructs, approaching the kitchenette Louis thinks this will be his favorite part the workshop, right along with the two armchairs. “You can also set voice recognition but FRIDAY won’t let anyone unwelcome in anyway.”

Louis nods, looking around. His lab. Workshop. Whatever, it still sounds unreal. There's this category of dreams that seem surreal enough to never happen, and this is beyond that category. It's a dream that wasn't even formed in Louis’ head, he didn't dare to even think of the possibility to ever enter this place, and yet there he is, about to take over the place and he’s being told about it like it's a cheap gift card for his birthday rather than something special.

Tony turns his head to glance at Louis. He gives the boy the hint of a smile and strides the few last steps to the coffee machine. "What question?”

“By any chance, do you have an IQ test I can take?” Louis asks, following the man. “I think the ones I've done were incorrect.”

Tony hums. "How do popes greet?"

"There's... only one pope,” Louis answers slowly, stopping by Tony’s side.

"See, you're fine." The man pulls out a black cup with the Stark Industries logo from a white cupboard and places it by the coffee machine. He nods at Dum-E standing nearby. "Dummy, you mind? Only for me, the kid's had enough. Don’t look at me like that, you should’ve gotten used to my caffeine intake by now. It’s been decades, donkey.”

The robot nods its head and squeaks happily in agreement.

A cup of coffee and ten minutes later, they are by Tony's desk again, Louis hanging upside down ('still _freaking_ me out, kid') as the man explains some of the suit's protocols.

Louis gets talkative and awkward, feeling comfortable enough to not pretend he understands all of Tony’s science babble. The man seems to be keeping him at distance, but he's more than eager to answer each of Louis' questions, whether it's simple or requiring a long, complex explanation. There's no condescension in his voice as the man expounds on numbers and sequences or stretches the limp limbs of the suit in his hands to point to places where Louis is allowed to tinker if he has an idea.

"At some point you'll have your own AI," Tony adds, turning on his stool. "Just telling you so you won't squeak when they'll talk to you."

"Like FRIDAY?" Louis lets go of the web and lands on the floor in a crouch. He straightens up, his eyes shining like he's just been told that he's getting a real life unicorn. This is much better than a unicorn, though, because having a multimillion dollar suit with an AI in a world where only a handful of people have their own Artificial Intelligence is just... downright insane.

"Yep."

Louis is positively beaming now, feeling two seconds away from throwing his arms around Tony’s neck and shouting ‘thank you’s. He restrains himself, though, as Tony hands him the suit. Then the man is up, his hand on Louis' shoulder after the boy has stashed the suit into his backpack, and offers a tour of the lab.

They start off with Tony showing him where all the equipment is, each machine explained. He shows him the emergency exits — ”But don't take it as an invitation to blow something up, — then points him in the direction of the bathroom. After wiping his personal data from the holoscreens and hard drives, he's about to talk Louis through the coffee machine when the door of the lab is soundlessly opened and the clicking of high heels echoes in the room.

"Oh, there she is." Tony's lips widen into a genuine smile as he turns his head. "The light of my life."

Virginia Potts approaches the kitchenette in small but decisive steps, her back straight and head up. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled into a bun, two long strands framing her stern yet delicate face. Tucking a strand behind an ear  she looks between Louis and Tony.

"I called you five times," she says, cocking one hip. She puts a hand on her slim waist, the other arm wrapped around a dozen folders. "Good afternoon, Mister Tomlinson," she greets the boy with a kinder tone and a small smile.

After a brief handshake, Louis clasps both hands behind his back and tries to look the best he can with the mess on his head and circles under his eyes.

"Good afternoon." He reciprocates the smile.

"Can I steal Tony for a second?" She asks, her gaze wandering back to the unruffled man beside him, striking blue of her eyes prominent in the lights of holograms.

"Well, he's not mine," Louis replies, and almost immediately his face falls. "I mean, Mister Stark—He's—Tony’s not—I didn't mean to— _God_."

Tony pats him on the back, a puff of laughter escaping his mouth, and excuses himself out. Louis and Dummy watch the pair walk out of the lab, the robot wheezing quietly by Louis’ side.

The woman stops Tony right behind the door and starts talking, but even Louis' enhanced senses can't catch on their voices. He supposes Tony has made the lab completely soundproof, which is understandable considering the kind of experiments the man has been performing here.

Just when Louis begins to feel bad for staring at the talking couple and he makes to turn his head away, the woman enters the room again, leaving Tony sitting on the stairs. The man is muttering something under his breath as he's signing some papers, but the words are incoherent and most probably not for Louis' ears anyways.

"Sorry about that," she walks towards the kitchenette.

Louis hasn't dared to move a muscle, so he also doesn't shift when the woman stands in front of him.

"S' okay, Miss Potts.”

“It’s Pepper. Coffee?” She asks in a sweet, but tired voice.

He shakes his head, so in the end it's Pepper who explains to Louis how the coffee machine works as she makes a cup for herself. They lean against the counter side by side, and it's just so… weird. He wants to say something, but what can you really say to the CEO of Stark Industries, Tony Stark's partner, and one of the most intimidating women in the world?

He's about to start talking about weather and the snow that's been being forecast to fill the silence when the woman speaks up.

"Tony never allows anyone in his lab, you know?”

Looking up, Louis realises that any other day this statement would have caught him more off guard, today so much has already taken place he isn’t sure he can still be shocked.

"Besides me. And Rhodey." She meets his gaze, her eyes kind though reserved. "I've been his CEO for years now, before that his assistant. Also his girlfriend." She gives a quick glance at Tony. "He didn't even let Obadiah into his workshops."

Louis knows about Obadiah Stane, the man who was supposed to take care of teenage Tony after his parents had died, but turned out to be a total evil asshole selling Stark Industries' weapons on black market. His mouth twitches at the memory of reading articles about how he had attempted to murder Tony — he was in primary school when he cried on his uncle's shoulder after seeing what the press was saying.

"What I mean is, he likes you, Mister Tomlinson." Pepper takes another sip of her coffee, eyes darting away as she glances around the lab.

Louis' frown deepens as he tries to comprehend Pepper's words. That just makes no sense. He is just a genetically screwed up kid who happened to be lucky enough to talk with Tony Stark. He knows that Tony tolerates him, maybe even considers him a bit of an equal, but does he _like_ Louis?

“Why?” Is all he says, looking everywhere but at the woman.

Pepper stares for a few seconds, like she's taken aback, but the confusion quickly washes off her face with a blink.

"I guess it’s appreciation," the woman explains. “Let me tell you something before he comes back and don’t quote me on this. He never lets people see there’s more to him than just the surface of a public persona.” She turns to face Louis and lowers her voice despite the fact that the man can’t hear them anyway. “I have watched Tony for half of his life. Half of my life, too. I have learned everything possible about him. When he was seventeen, and with no friends to speak of, he built his first AI and named it Dum-E. When he was starting to run the company, he saw Dum-E standing alone, a bit neglected due to Tony’s day-to-day job, so he built the robot a brother so that he would always have someone when Tony wasn’t around. When his butler retired, he built his third AI and named him after the only man who ever paid any attention to him. He named him JARVIS. Then Tony was thirty; he was lost. He had just returned from the cave, and felt more alone more than ever, so he wrote his fourth, fifth, and sixth AIs, almost like he was creating friends.”

Pepper pauses to take a longer glance at the man sitting behind the glass, takes another sip of her beverage, and searches for Dum-E with her eyes.

“A couple of years ago, Tony started suffering from PTSD. Nightmares, panic attacks, headaches. He wanted to keep the world safe, he thought, and still does, that it’s his sole responsibility.  He thinks that if he doesn’t save everyone, he will be left with nothing but a bodycount as his legacy. He wants to do good, he screws up, and then tries to fix everything like he always does. It’s like the only thing he does. Fix everything. Years passed and he told me he didn’t want another AI. He had FRIDAY, and that’d be it. But then he met a kid. A very bright one. Someone with more potential to save the world than he says he could ever imagine. It was just a boy, almost like any other in the streets, but he had brains and powers, and instead of using them for selfish matters, he put on some boots and a mask, and swung around the neighborhood. Tony came to me and talked my ear off about how much he needed to help him.” She smiles, putting her half empty cup away. “And Tony built another AI. The kid hasn’t met them yet, it’s not the time. All his life everyone wanted something from him, demanded, had their agendas over his. Even SHIELD. The people who were supposed to be his friends also turned out to be… a bit onerous. You're a nice change of pace for him.” She pushes off the counter and faces Louis. “That’s why, kid.”

They exchange looks, hers warm and reassuring, and his a bit lost.

“And when he started getting reports about what the kid was doing, he took over the burner phone and listened. Daily. To stories about catching a car thief, about a lady who insisted to pay for helping her with groceries, about that one little girl who lost her dog in a park. To those first daily, then more intermittent reports about small patrols.”

Louis hadn’t realized he had his head down until now that Pepper tilts it up, holding her bent finger under his chin. He hears more than feels a tear splatter on the floor.

“And you know, sometimes it’s four in the morning, and he’s being eaten by anxiety, stress, and fear, and he’s holding a too strong coffee in his hand, and he chooses to listen to you. I guess he feels a little less alone and broken that way. And I know you probably hate this arm-length relationship, but he’s learned the hard way that everyone who’s in his orbit eventually ends up getting wounded. He thinks it’s better for you if he keeps his distance.”

 

 

"Need a drive?" Tony asks when Louis takes the suit out of his backpack.

Louis can't get used to the warmth in the man's voice.

"Nah." He waves a hand. "I'll swing home. Gotta grab pizzas on my way, too."

"Need some cash for it?" Tony puts his cup away and approaches the boy. "I can get you free dinners at—"

"There's really no need," Louis cuts him off politely, hands already gripping on the hem of his hoodie. "Aunt Jay already seemed to be close to a heart attack when she saw the IKEA guys in our door. It was a miracle she didn't return all the stuff, so I'd rather you don't step over that line again anytime soon, Mister Stark.”

"Tony. Sorry about that, should've informed you," Tony admits, leaning back in his chair and crossing arms against his chest. "Just wanted you to have a better environment. I mean, it's not like... You and your aunt are...” He coughs. “I just wanted to do something _nice_ , okay? I’m not a monster.”

Louis smiles fondly at the man who turns his head away, soft blush creeping on his cheeks as he tightens the grip he has on his forearms. He thinks that Tony most probably isn’t used to doing nice things just for the sake of doing them, especially given what is  known to the public about his abusive childhood and then crazy life as a playboy billionaire. Trying to build a better life for a teenager from Queens must be a change of pace for him.

"I never got to thank you," Louis says after a few seconds.

"You sent like fifty texts, kid. I had never seen so many emojis used in a single sentence." His gaze is back on the boy, although a there's some shyness in it now instead of the usual cockiness. He looks down. "How are the shoes? Comfy?"

Louis nods, following the man’s gaze. "Yes, they—"

"And the suit?" Tony continues, gesturing with his hands. "Not too tight? It's programmed to accommodate to you even after you grow up a bit."

"Yeah, I—"

"I have other shoe designs, I'll send them to you later today. Happy will—"

"Mister Stark!" Louis cuts him off and lets go of his hoodie to place a hand on the crook of the man's elbow, risking stepping into his personal space. “Tony. It's okay, I have everything I need. Thank you."

Tony stares at him a bit startled, broken out of his trance. He looks abashed, like a kid who's been caught stealing every sweet from a cookie jar. He raises a hand to his face, fingers pressing on furrowed brows.

"Sorry, kid. I just worry about you out there, okay?”

"It's alright." Louis smiles reassuringly, withdrawing his hand. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta suit up, so you might wanna..." He swirls his hand at Tony in a ‘turn away’ gesture.

The man complies, and Louis quickly gets rid of all his clothes, sans underwear, his phone thrown on the table. He puts on the loose suit, then presses the spider button and the material wraps around his body. Strange to say that, but it feels like coming home.

"You decent?"

"Yep." Louis slips his mobile into the discrete pocket behind his hip, throws the mask on the table and starts pushing the trackies and shirt into the backpack. Then he slides the hoodie and jacket on and reaches down for the shoes.

"The suit's got a heater, you know," says Tony as he turns back, watching him put the sneakers on.

"I know."

"But wear the hoodie, it's cold outside.”

"By any chance, Mister Stark, are you trying to parent me or something?" Louis jokes, slinging the backpack on his shoulders.

Tony stares at him in silence for a while, his expression unreadable. There's a flicker of melancholy going through his face, but it disappears almost as soon as it showed up, leaving Louis with a feeling that he shouldn’t be joking about this. Then he looks over at the huge wall clock at the end of the room before uncrossing his arms and tucking hands into the pockets of his jeans, swinging on the balls of his feet once.

"Well, Underoos, skidaddle now.  You're dismissed.” He waves his hand in a dismissing gesture. “Your aunt is waiting."

"Kicking me out now? Make up your mind, dad." Louis squints his eyes, grabbing the mask.

He stretches his back and arm to wake up his still half asleep muscles and prime them for the way he has to make to Queens. He glances at Tony. With his face unmoving and a bit downcast, it's easy to spot the shadows and circles under the man's eyes.

"Don't test your luck, Tomlinson," Tony jokes.

"I don't have much of it to test, Mister Stark," says Louis truthfully. Luck isn't really his thing, he mostly lives off his questionable intelligence and short attention span.

Louis is already turned away from Tony and starts walking towards the tunnel they drove in through when he stops short. He turns his masked face towards Tony one last time and smiled, even though the man can't see it now.

"Thank you, Tony. Really. Thank you for everything."

He wouldn't put money on it, but he thinks he heard 'no, thank _you_ ' after he started jogging out of the lab.

 

Unknown Number, 5:23 PM

why are giraffes yellow

 

5:25 PM

pink was taken by the elephants

 

5:25 PM

hi harry

 

hazza, 5:25 PM

no question as to how i got your number?

 

5:26 PM

i’ve got a strange feeling i won't get an answer

 

hazza, 5:26PM

see now this is why i like you

 

5:27 PM

i thought you said you didn't

 

hazza, 5:27 PM

that was before the unforeseeable

 

“You're making a face.”

Louis scrunches his nose once and straightens his face to hide the fond smile. He nuzzles deeper in the plush of his blanket, fixing his position on the armchair as he feels Jay’s curious eyes on him. The stupid grin ceases to come off his face even during his patrol later that night.

 

**February the 16th, Friday**

 

Unknown Number, 5:12 AM

I got your absences at school covered so no worries

 

Unknown Number, 5:12 AM

it's Tony by the way

 

5:14 AM

thanks!

 

Tony, 5:17 AM

next time you go to the workshop just chat up Elin in the lobby, she’ll know what to do. have fun

 

Tony, 5:19 AM

and go to sleep, what the hell kid

 

"You just did a thing with your face that made me wanna play _Pour_ _It Up_ and lend you one of my red lacy panties.”

Louis contains a smile, shuts the locker, and fixes the backpack's position on his shoulder.

By lunchtime, Niall has asked him if he’s high, and several teachers seemed to pick up on the few more hours of sleep he got and his buzz. He’s still sporting dark circles under his eyes, he checked, and still feels like shit, but he'd be lying if he said he isn't grateful for the long nap at the tower. There is spark in him that’s has been making him squirm ever since yesterday, so yeah, one could say he's high.

The lunch noise isn’t something that Louis is actively looking forward to get an earful of. He’s gotten used to the chatter in hallways and the bell tearing up his eardrums, but the canteen is a totally different story. It's like standing in the first row of Eminem's concert involuntarily—suffocated and tortured with the tumult, and he still has to pretend he's completely fine.

Today their usual table has been half taken over by some girls Louis couldn't say he's ever seen in his life. He hasn’t seen half the Midtown students in his life, to be frank, there are limits to what he cares about. Harry and Louis arrive during the second half of the lunch break so, to be fair, it's no wonder there’s only one seat left for them.

He should have predicted it, he really should have. Regardless, he’s still genuinely surprised and yelps when Harry plops onto the  free space and tugs Louis down with him, sliding his backpack on the floor in the process. Louis ends up on the boy's lap, sitting mostly with his side facing Niall seated across the table.

Harry muffles a laugh, the sound going unnoticed to everyone but them two.

“My sweet cheeks!” he coos in a pitched voice.

“My personal space!” Louis fake squeals in return.

Louis flushes pink as his inner battle starts—should he move away or no? Where do they stand? They had _rules_ , and Harry whispered something about 'tomorrow’ when they… kissed.

Oh, my God, they _kissed_.

“That’s not what it looks like.”

The blush on Louis’ cheeks must turn scarlet, because Niall looks like he has to ask a question or he’ll explode. His eyes wander over to Harry's expression, and the understanding seems to come to him on its own.

“So, how long have you sweet things been together?”

Harry rushes to explain, his arm wrapping around Louis' waist, fingers digging into the flesh above his hip bone as he pulls him closer.

“Thirty seven hours, eleven minutes, and like ten seconds. Depends on the timezone. Our forty-eight-hour anniversary is soon, wanna come over? We’ll be painting nails and talking about girls.”

In that very moment, Louis realizes that Harry is a bit of a madman, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. If he’s being honest with himself, he actually kind of likes it.

“Liam owes me twenty bucks.” Niall doesn’t bother with suppressing a grin.

“We’re friends," Louis cuts in, shifting a little to make himself comfortable.

If he can't get away from the situation without making it weird, he can try and own it. What can go wrong with two friends acting friendly? He and Niall used to sit on each other's laps as well, at least until Niall decided that if they continued he'd never get a girlfriend.

Harry gasps loudly over his shoulder.

“Should’ve listened to my dad, he always says you’d break my heart.”

"Sure, yeah, of course, just dudes being dudes." Niall shrugs, making a tomato slice fall out of his sandwich. " _Shit_." He looks down at the splattered vegetable and pokes it with a finger. “Use protection, kids, don’t do drugs. Not without me at least.”

“Seriously, though, he’s right, Ni,” says Harry firmly this time.

Niall spares him and Louis a confused glance. He points at them with the same finger he was touching the wet table with.

“You two sure you're on the same page?”

Harry hums. “Yep, we discussed it.”

Louis feels Harry's arm tighten around him, and it takes a lot for him to not give into the urge of nuzzling into the boy's warmth. If he can lift a bus, he can keep his hormones in check. Or so he hopes.

It feels odd to just function normally, like Louis' hickey didn't exist yesterday and Harry's aren't on full display, peeking out from the loose grey sweater and catching the eye of anyone who may spare him a glance. Which means a lot of people, because as he knows, Harry loves people and people love Harry. He’s never alone in the hallways, engaged in a conversation with someone different every time Louis sees him.

“You seem uncharacteristically ecstatic, baby honey.” Harry rests his chin on Louis' shoulder.

Content with the change of topic, less with the nickname, Louis smiles widely.

“Alright, k’, brace yourself. So I was absent yesterday, yeah? That’s because Tony—Mister Stark called me in. I thought it was no big deal, or that he’d fire me or whatever, but no. He took me to Stark Tower.”

Niall cheers and raises a hand to high five Louis.

“Shh, it’s not the end," Louis adds quickly, struggling to ignore Harry's nose nuzzling under his ear, "he said I'm— _agh_ . Hazza. Hazza, _stop_ it."

"It's not on the list," Harry whispers quietly enough for only the two of them to hear the words. His hot breath sends shivers down Louis' spine when it hits the skin underneath his jawline.

“I hate you.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Those three reddish spots on my collarbone tell a different story."

It's truly a wonder how Harry can simultaneously decrease and increase his stress level.

“Anyhoo. He took me to the tower and basically gave me the workshop in the Tower’s basement. As in, his old lab. Tony Stark’s laboratory, designed by him, used by him, and cared for by him," he announces proudly, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around Harry's forearms. He wants to let go, but the boy shifts swiftly and holds him in place. Oh, how useless are superpowers when you have to keep your super identity a secret. “He’s got a new one somewhere else and decided I’m responsible enough—which I beg to differ but that’s beside the point—to take care of this one.”

“If you told him you managed to burn my kettle, he’d reconsider that decision. Still, proud of you." Niall turns a blind eye on their behavior, digging his teeth into the last bites of his sandwich.

Harry only hugs Louis tighter if it's even possible in the grip he has on him.

"Just _shush_ , okay?" Louis reciprocates the little cuddle. “I don't want anyone to hear about it, especially Nick. He’ll give me hell.”

“Ouch. You wound me, Tomlinson. I thought we had something special."

Nick Grimshaw sits on the edge of their table with a thud, facing Harry and Louis as he grins maliciously. His black sweater with the CK logo pools over his leather belt as he leans back and rests his body weight on spread arms.

The girls sitting on Harry's left eye Nick top to bottom; some of them snort, some of them blush shyly, and one looks like she’s gonna hit him for moving her bottle of juice with his hand. Louis silently prays for her to do so. He can help.

Who is he kidding, he didn’t even want to kill a fly when Niall asked him to.

“Looking for your brain cells, Grimshaw?” Niall asks, lazily slurping the rest of his Sprite from the can. “Think I saw them over on Nonexistent Boulevard.”

“Looking for a reason why this dickwad feels like he’s above us with his Tony Stark bullshit.” Nick's eyes don't leave Louis who tries to look everywhere but at him. Louis is really not in the mood. He never is when it comes to Nick. There are moments when he feels like letting go and just sending the guy through the nearest window, and he's having one of those moments now. “I mean, _please_ ," he takes Louis' hoodie in two fingers like he's touching a dead bird, the boy weakly yanking away, “Stark wouldn't like to catch a disease from this joke of a human being. Disaster is contagious."

Harry's thumb brushes over the exposed skin of Louis' wrists in a calming gesture, his heart not even skipping a beat. He’s sitting impressively still, and Louis can't see his expression, but he's pretty sure the boy's not even slightly moved by Nick's behavior. He appreciates the touch, though, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud. He _should_ put it on their Don’t Do It or I’ll Fall for You list, but he doesn't think he can live without Harry's soft touches.

"That’s classy," Harry says composedly, his finger still drawing small circles on Louis’ flesh and his chin still nestled in the crook over Louis' collarbone.

He gives off some solid not giving a flying fuck energy. Louis aspires to reach that level of coolness, as—more often than not—he seems to be the first one to get his pants in a twist.

Nick give him a look. “You say something?”

Harry doesn’t even skip a beat, curving his lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

"You’re the baby fairy. The newbie. Ain’t ya?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Yeah.” Nick scoffs. “Do me a solid and zip your lips shut, or I’ll have them beat shut and trust me, you don’t want this.”

“See, now you’re just being superfluously mean.”

Louis can’t help a breathy snort at Nick’s sudden shift of expression. He goes from smartass to what-the-hell in a split second, and admittedly, it’s the funniest thing Louis’ seen this week. He can’t help but wonder what caused that reaction—the fact that someone actually talked back right into his face, or more likely it’s complicated word itself which has thrown him. Nick gives a small nod, trying to compose himself.

“Courteous one, I see,” he says, and Louis almost laughs at the obvious change of tone, the surprise and doubt lacing Nick’s voice.

“I can be everything to you, hon, just say the word,” Harry counters. He’s quick to jump slightly in his seat soon after that. “Oh, shit, ahhh.” He hisses in a breath. “No, I can’t, I’m taken.”

“We’re not dating, Harry,” Louis counters.

“He’s ashamed of me,” Harry explains, fully ignoring Nick’s disgusted face. “You know, he’s got a reputation to uphold, even though I tell my baby constantly that secret dating has far worse consequences.“

Nick cuts in. “You ever try to shut up? You're relentlessly annoying, fucking hell."

“You ever tried shutting yourself in a closet and locking it from outside so that we won’t have to see your mug? I suggest you do, I heard the trash bin cleaning service has been getting better recently, you might wanna hide.”

Nick's eyes widen almost comically.

“Love the shirt, by the way,” Harry adds. “Really brings out the jackhole homophobe in your eyes.”

Louis suppresses a smug smile as he watches Nick give Harry one last venomous look, before jumping off the table and walking away. Harry's hand wanders back to where it was snuggled in the material of the hoodie on Louis’ waist.

“I miss him already. He seemed cool,” he declares.

“Sometimes he’s nicer,” Louis says. “I mean, a week ago he spilled his tea all over a freshman because they stood in his way.”

"Just a small minded, homophobic, ignorant asshole with rich parents and no hobby other than being a bully." Niall shrugs, long used to Nick's shenanigans. He crumples the can in his hands and drops it on his tray, glancing at his watch. “No need to put an ounce of care in him.”

“He can't just go around and be like that,” Harry fumes.

“He can, he has, and he will." Louis tries not to whimper as the boy nestles his face into the folds of his hoodie. Harry will be the end of him. “He hasn’t gone for actual beating me up for a while, though.”

“He did hit you two years ago,” Niall points out.

“He also hit me twelve times before that,” Louis adds, recalling middle school and wondering for a second what he did to the powers that be that they have decided to put him and Grimshaw in the same school for eight years now.  “Tore my homework, tripped me, shut me in the girls’ bathroom. Fun times, good times.”

“Not to go with stereotypes, but he doesn’t strike me as someone who knows how to count to ten,” Harry says, drawing shapes on Louis’ skin.

“Nick got into and gets through MSST only because of his ugly rich parents, not because of his grades,” Louis explains. “If you’ve ever heard of someone dumb enough to mistake a swan for a pigeon, that would be Nick’s level of intelligence. His folks managed to bribe the best schools in NYC into accepting him, complicating the righteous students’ lives in the process, just to keep the name of their family good and clean.”

"Who cares, we don’t talk about dicks unless it’s in the bedroom, my dudes. Let's stop wasting oxygen and start discussing more noteworthy things." Niall swallows the final piece of his lunch and scoots forward, his eyes curious. "The lab. I was under impression that the September Foundation is about, well, funding. You manage to make Stark into your sugar daddy?"

Louis grimaces.

“Great minds think alike,” Harry laughs only to quickly snap his mouth shut and groan at the swift elbow in his stomach.

“You’re both the absolute worst.”

“You still love me.” A hot breath filters through the material of Louis’ clothing and fans across the skin of his shoulder.

Louis fights with the urge to lean back into the warmth. Harry squeezes his hand on Louis' hip making him stifle a yelp in his throat. _God_.

He’s about to complain again but the bell cuts him off.

Louis almost does a good job at not screwing his face at the sharp wave of pain in his eardrums. Almost. He is about to tap Harry's hand with his finger, but Harry beats him to it and pats his thighs.

"Alright. Up, up, Lou," he says. “I have a test to pass and a teacher to impress.”

Louis suppresses a 'no' as the boy unwraps himself from around him, and quickly gets up, already missing the contact. Harry follows, fixing his sweater and jeans.  He looks at Louis with a tiny smile when they face each other.

"You have..." Louis points his finger at Harry's slightly crooked headscarf, but decides on not being a pussy and reaches out to position the material properly on Harry's curls. A soft shiver goes down his arm at the feeling of feather soft locks and memory of them trapped between his fingers. "There."

He turns away to watch Niall pick up his stuff, the far gone blush already finding a sneaky way back on his cheeks. Harry steps closer behind him one more time and rests his chin briefly on Louis’ shoulder.

Louis doesn't protest. Forgetting himself and the school for a second, he allows the contact again, even if what he should do is to put a definite stop on this, but as anything else in the world, it's easier said than done. Besides, he doesn't think he wants to stop it. It's what friends do, too, right? Right.

 _Besides_ , he's entitled to doing stupid things once in a while. Ten times a day.

When Harry walks away, Louis notices Niall’s calculating gaze, and realizes that they’ve been watched throughout the entire exchange. His cheeks flush involuntarily for the second time in the span of ten minutes.

"So... friends?" Niall asks with an insufferable smirk as he fixes the backpack on his shoulder. “That's what you want?”

Louis doesn’t tear his eyes away from Harry’s back until the boy disappears behind a corner.

"Friends," he says, neither him nor Niall believing his words.

Niall eyes him for a few more seconds.

"You hooked up, didn't you?" He sounds more excited than unsure. Louis doesn't miss a beat as he nods in reply. Niall squeaks.

 

 

"Poe compares important things in life slipping away to the slipping away of grains of sands he holds in his hand. They question whether it is _really_ important..."

"Have I ever told you how stupid you are?"

Louis sighs, the sounds muffled as his head is tucked in his arms crossed on the desk. "On many occasions."

"Apparently not enough," Niall continues to whisper, taking notes from what the English teacher, Miss Uchima, is saying. "I can't _believe_ you're pushing him away like that."

"Oi! I'm not _pushing him away_ ," Louis argues. He listens to the teacher, and when her words overlap with what he studied during the weekend, he shifts his attention back to his friend. "I'm just... trying to keep him at distance."

"See, whatever it is you’re doing, it certainly doesn’t give off the _keeping at distance_ vibe, Tommo." Niall cocks an eyebrow at him, his eyes confused. "Why though? He's clearly into you, you're single _and_ into him, what's there to keep at distance?"

"Exactly that." Louis rolls his eyes, straightening up a bit so his voice isn't stifled by his hoodie. "Shit like this doesn't happen, Ni. We barely met and what? It's not like you can fall for someone in two days."

“Jeez, you’re so dramatic, I swear to God. “ Niall focuses on Miss Uchima again. She does talk some trash when it comes to poetry, and rarely objects to student chatting, so he doesn't bother to stop his rant. "I know the world’s full of bullshit rom-coms, but contrary to your beliefs, crushes exist, and so does love at the first sight. Give him a chance.”

Louis’ grimaces, his brows knitting together. He doesn't allow himself to revisit his thoughts from lunch break, he's not strong enough for that.

"On what planet do people hook up and date after two days?"

"On this one," Niall deadpans as if he asked him if Christmas is on Christmas. "Again, what's keeping your hands tied? Just date him." He starts counting on his fingers with an open pen, not caring about the ink on his skin. "Go grab a coffee together, watch a movie, make out til two am, stretch out a sweater while you hook up. That's what teenagers do."

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Niall’s faster.

"Oh, you _do_ want to." He points at Louis with the pen. "And don't you even _start_ with your 'I don't have time' bullshit. I already told you that you can find plenty of time if you want to.”

Louis doesn’t reply immediately, his attention drifting back for a second to the teacher and the class. When he’s positive that the bored out of their mind students aren’t interested in his and Niall’s conversation, and Miss Uchima still doesn’t look like kicking him out for napping, he looks back at his friend.

"I don't want a relationship," he says finally. Even he doesn’t believe in his own words, let alone Niall who’s been calling this bullshit for ages. "I don’t have to explain myself to you, Niall. We’re friends, I know, but no is no. That's it. Case closed."

“Poe is saying that some of us could be accused of living life as if in a dream,” the teacher continues, her eyes now on an unmoved Louis, “that is, with hardly a grip on reality, but nevertheless...”

Louis sends her a weak smile and pretends to look interested. He'll get an A when the test comes anyway.

"So…” Niall spares him one more skeptical glance. “You're just gonna stick to your weird ass rules and hope for him to never ask you out?"

"No, of course not." Louis shakes his head, a plan already forming in his head as he nuzzles back into his crossed arms, again free of the teacher’s attention. "I'm gonna do some stupid shit.”

 

**February the 17th, Saturday**

 

Half past midnight on Saturday. A way to not be creepy at all.

Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he just forgot to turn off the lights. Maybe he’s not in the room and didn’t hear Louis knocking. Maybe—

A sleepy face peeks out from between two curtains. Once it spots who's on the other side of the window, Louis’ sent a bright smile and a finger pointing to the window on his left.

Half encouraged, half embarrassed, Louis gives him a small wave and invisible smile, and the curtain falls closed, blocking the view of what Louis guesses is Harry's bedroom.

He's aware his face under the mask is beaming. He can't help the grin and the undeniable fond as his skin crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He feels like he finally begins to understand why things with Harry spiraled as quick as they did—the indubitable infatuation has taken over him like the fluffiest blanket, warming him up and making his skin tingle in the softest way possible. He figured that if he can't really come up with a way to fight this, he can try to neutralize it.

He doesn't know how agreeing to the interview with Harry is going to make his infatuation decrease. He’s not _that_ smart.

The window opens and Louis jumps into a space that he quickly recognizes as the kitchen.

Harry closes the window and puts the lace curtains back into their place.

“What in gay hell?” He leans against the wall, hips thrusted forward, arms crossed across his chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Louis turns and eyes him up and down. Christ on a stick.

"You really think I’d show up here unannounced and uninvited without good reason?" He cocks an eyebrow, the lense following the movement with a buzz.

Harry waves a hand. "You wouldn't be the first one, so that's positive."

Louis’ brows wander higher up.

"You wound me. There are other heroes crawling through your window and offering you an agreement for an interview that I don't know about? I really thought we'd have something unique here, but if you're off being taken, then I can reduce my advances to admiring from distance, can't I?"

“It's called stalking.”

“To each their own, curly head.” Louis cocks a hip and mimics Harry's pose with the newfound confidence. Maybe he won't make an idiot out of himself after all. “Name’s Spider-Man and I'm here to proposition you.”

His eyes get unintentionally stuck on Harry's current state of appearance.

Harry looks like a proper, sleepy hot mess, all joyful eyes, shoved back hair, and crumpled pyjamas, and all Louis wants to do is to cuddle the crap out of him and pepper him with kisses. Maybe buy twenty chocolate bars and a huge ass bouquet of sunflowers. Or roses. Harry looks more like roses, he probably likes them yellow or white.

He’s so gone, isn’t he?

“You're literally setting yourself up with your words, you know that?” Harry laughs.

_Can I record you and listen to you when I'm sad? Or like, all the time?_

Louis blinks, trying to recall what Harry’s responding to.

“I know a lot of things, including the fact that there are sixty thousand miles of blood vessels in the human body. Point is, a little birdy told me you'd like an interview with _moi_. I'm here to talk this through.” He's more than surprised that his words are able to make an audible appearance given the fact that half his brain is orbiting Neptune right now.

He watches as Harry's face goes through at least ten different emotions, from disbelief through astonishment before settling on happiness.

The boy tightens his arms around himself, and Louis finally gets to see his defined arms in their finest. His heart does a flip.

"The interview. Yeah, the—Yeah." Harry presses his lips together and scratches his nose. "That's—Wow. I'm usually more talkative, I'm just forewarning you.”

Harry's eyes wander up and down Louis’ body.

It dawns on Louis that he's literally standing here in a skintight onesie that leaves almost nothing to imagination. He's never considered it an issue since the clinging hybrid of spandex and kevlar is just perfect in the aerodynamic sense of matter. Taking into account his swinging and acrobatics, the form fitting suit is simply the best option.

Now he realises how little dignity it makes Louis look to have. He forces himself to not cover his body.

“Has anyone ever told you you look hot as hell in that onesie?”

“Not a onesie,” Louis corrects him automatically. “You're Harry. Or at least that's what he said.”

“He?” Harry extends a hand which Louis shakes after taking a step forward. “Sorry, should’ve done that earlier.”

“Louis,” he explains, the word still tasting odd on his tongue. It's beyond weird to talk about himself in the third person.

His knees almost turn to jelly as Harry flashes him a tiny smile.

“He hasn't mentioned he'd tell you, that jerk.”

“He did seem hesitant. When are you free?”

“Have I given you my consent yet?” Harry squints his eyes. “Don't be so quick, Captain Casanova, I'm thinking about it. This decision needs serious consideration.” He coughs. “It's considered. I'm always free for you. Today? Tomorrow?”

"What do you say, I'll just swing by or contact you through Louis when I have more time?” Louis is surprised his voice comes out so steady and controlled, because his heart is still keen on doing flips and tiny dances.

"Works for me. Just don’t leave me hanging for too long." Harry nods, flashing a grin. A few curls fall on his face as he makes to take a step back.

“I would never. See you soon then.” Louis walks up to Harry as the boy opens the window again without even asking. “Duty calls. Crime to stop, cats to save, people to pull out from fires. Good night and sweet dreams.”

Harry gives him a weird look and for a second Louis’ afraid his voice betrayed him, but he doesn't notice a hint of recognition in the boy's eyes.

“Good night. Be safe out there.”

Louis salutes, and springs out of the kitchen, his heart thudding and stomach twisted in a pretzel. He's so screwed.

 

 

“ _... seen at the International Convention of Biophysics and Genetic Engineering. According to the participants, the man has decided to push ahead with the human trials. We’ve been trying to set an appointment with Mister Osborn, but the CEO of Oscorp has refused any contact with the media. Tony Stark seems to have been warning..._ ”

“So.” Jay takes another forkful of her pancake. “I saw this Harry yesterday.”

“Ohmygod.”

Louis stuffs his mouth, smearing the toffee sauce on his cheek and nose purposefully to have something to do and trying to make his aunt forget about what she said. Whatever it takes to not have this kind of conversation. He’s got enough to stress over today, and he’s  barely woken up.

“He’s nice,’ Jay adds, having swallowed. “He helped me out with the groceries.”

Louis doesn't reply immediately, chewing on his mouthful and staring at the TV screen, one hand reaching to the napkin by his leg.

The moment he opened his eyes after five hours of sleep, he decided to not think about Harry, but the world turned out to have other plans for him. Harry was the first thing Louis saw when he peeked from behind his window towards the snow-and-smog covered Queens Boulevard. It seems like the boy has become fixture in his life ever since the day Louis entered the Mid News club meeting. He sees him in the halls during breaks, on the streets, or in his window when going out or coming back from a patrol. Louis thought Harry would be just another passing pretty face in Midtown High, but the recent days have shown that the curly boy isn't about fade back into the crowd, no matter how much Louis' common sense would like him to.

"I thought you don’t want help with groceries," he says vaguely, putting his plate on the coffee table and grabbing the half empty cup of coffee.

"Well," Jay sighs, "it's not like I could say no to that smile."

Louis chuckles. He does know something about it.

"Point taken," he mutters and looks back up at the TV screen, not really paying attention to the _CBB News_ , even though he probably should.

"You're making that face again.” Jay points at him with an empty fork.

Louis didn't want to look her in the eye a few seconds ago, but now he does spare a glance and what he sees is exactly what he thought he'd see. His aunt is wearing a smirk that says she knows something is going on and she definitely _knows_ what this something is. Louis isn’t a fan of this smirk because it means he’s still too easy to read.

“What face?” Louis asks in a higher voice than intended.

“The Harry Face,” Jay explains.

He wipes the stupid look from his face, and sucks in a breath to give a well-thought, proper reply.

"No idea what you're talking about."

He shifts his gaze back to the screen, his thoughts involuntarily wandering back to Wednesday, the heated makeout and days following.

Louis’ head is a mess. They had a _plan_ , a set off list of _boundaries_ , and then they broke it all before it even got to come to life.

It's too early to contemplate all of this, that's for sure. He could barely make it through the two cups of coffee, exhaustion and a few bruises weighing him down. He did get his longer than average five-hours weekend sleep, but it's not enough. It hasn't been for a year. He assumes that it's only the healing factor and mutated everything that is managing to keep him steady on his legs nowadays.

Jay nudges him with a knuckle. "Whatever you say, big guy."

" _Jaaay_ ," Louis whines, tilting his head back and resting it on the couch. "Please, let's not do that.”

"Do what?" Jay asks innocently, putting her plate on Louis'. Her hum is too insincere, making it clear she isn't about to let this go.

"Don't be the matchmaker kind of a parent, I’m literally begging you here."

"Oh, no, not gonna matchmake anything. I'll just buy popcorn ‘cause this is going to be interesting."

She makes to stand up from the armchair and Louis follows suit. He gets to the cups and plates first, and takes them to the kitchen. Jay joins him by the sink, one hip rested against the countertop.

"There's nothing to watch," says Louis, feeling her waiting for him to speak up. "Really, Jay, we're friends. That’s all.”

“Of course.”

That’s not a lie, but the observations Louis made in the last couple of days make him feel like he doesn’t want it to be a lie. Because they _fit_. Oddly and unexpectedly on Louis' side, but they really do.

It hasn't escaped Louis' attention that when they walked through the halls, their steps didn't fall into one, but completed each other in a weird way. Harry's strides were longer and more deer-like, meanwhile Louis' were stern and short, feet touching the ground with care and confidence coming from the control he has to keep over his body. Harry was more about gesturing where Louis preferred to keep his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Harry talks in the way he wants to, whether it’s dragging words for centuries or taking fifteen seconds to explain how Egyptians came up with a calendar, and Louis' words tend to come out with the speed of a machine gun.

They slot together like a puzzle and it's odd as hell.

“He sends butts instead of ‘but’s.”

“Charming.” Jay laughs.

“Yeah. Pictures of butts instead of writing ‘but’,” he explains. “Rabbits butts, ants butts, reindeer butts. Jessica Simpson butts.”

He realises he finished washing the dishes somehow, a towel is in his hands now as he dries them off. Or rather tries to do so as his fingers are glued to the cotton.

“I can’t date someone who sends butts," he mutters weakly, unsticking his palms from the towel. Losing control over his sticky powers hasn't happened for over a year.

“Louis.”

The serious tone makes his head snap. _Ouch._

“Yeah?”

“Remember what I told you, right?”

He nods. “Honesty is the most important thing in any relationship. I know, Jay.”

He stifles a yawn, the need of a long sleep with candy dreams and a huge breakfast afterwards knocking on the door of his consciousness.

"You should get more sleep," says Jay, observing him as he walks up to the fridge. "You seem so tired lately."

"Got a lot going on at school." Louis scans the shelves in a search for something sweet. He finds two cups of Monte, so he sends a questioning look to his aunt when grabbing them. She shakes her head, giving him a green light, so he takes them into one hand. "Finals soon, the internship is awesome but tiring as heck, and the homework, and stuff. Met new people a few days ago," he adds, pulling out a bottle of water from a shelf above the microwave and putting it on top of the desserts. "So much has happened in the past week."

"I see."

"Really, Jay." He passes his aunt to get to the bowl of fruits situated on the shelf hung on a narrow wall separating the living room from the kitchen. He takes two bananas and an apple, adds them to the pile, and turns around. "Nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"You're gonna eat all of this?" Jay asks, eyeing the food.

Louis walks up to the fridge again and tucks the leftovers from yesterday's pizza under his free arm. "I have high hopes."

He shoots his aunt a play-pretend smile, not missing out on her half worried, half smug expression, and disappears around the corner.

Once he's in his room, he closes the door behind him and places the food on the bottom bunk. He makes it to his desk and backpack, untucks a web-shooter, school stuff, and his phone, then scatters them on the free space on the floor by the bed. The web-shooter in its out-of-the-suit form, lands against back of his left hand. The mechanism buzzes as soon as it touches the skin, starting to open up and part. Louis observes as the segments fit themselves around his wrist, undisguised awe still on his face as he appreciates the tech he has the privilege to carry.

He changes from his pyjamas to tracksuit bottoms and a shirt, and goes for his notebooks.

 

 

Blankly, Louis stares at the jumble of books and papers, taking in the empty pizza box and two plastic cups. He was studying, he remembers that dimly. Actually, he remembers more than that—numbers and signs flash through his head as his brain goes online. Chemistry. Bio quiz. English essay. He glances at the four pages of perhaps enough-sense-making-to-pass ramble about _A Dream Within A Dream_ , but the text is just a mess of black squiggles.

The blur wipes out as he blinks lazily, rising from the ground  to his knees. Jesus _Christ_ , his back. No more falling asleep on the floor.

Shit, wait, a knock.

“Crap,” he mumbles, scrambling off the ground messily, the half asleep and nervous state making his hands stick to the loose papers and notebooks. “Get _off_ me,” he hisses.

Once he's on his feet, he checks if the web dissolved and whether his shirt is crumpled. One positive, one negative, so he goes to the closet and grabs a hoodie. He taps the web-shooter to make the trigger hide back into the bracelet and tugs on the sleeves to cover up his wrists as he makes his way to the door.

Harry's wide grin and sparkling eyes are the first thing he sees after cracking it open.

“Lou!”

“Hazza." He reciprocates the smile weakly, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand.

“How are you?” The boy asks, hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans.

Underneath a white zip up hoodie, he's sporting the exact same heart patterned shirt that Louis was eyeing in H&M over a week ago. Seeming completely unaware of Louis' sped up heartbeat and warmth pooling in his chest, he scrunches his nose in the usual adorable manner.

“I’m fine,” Louis replies, letting the boy in.

He takes one more glance around the room searching for anything Spider-Man related. The suit is stashed into the backpack hanging on the bed's frame, and the glass-pad with an unfinished formulas of magnetic webbing is somewhere in the desk drawers, so he's fine.

Harry looks around, interest coloring his face. He glances at the baby blue walls, half covered with photographs on strings and a couple of shelves with books and awards he got on various competitions. His gaze drops to the L-shaped desk with a double screen supplied by Tony on one side and something of a small workshop of Louis’—some electronics and different devices’ parts scattered as the tools and the rest of the dump is put in the drawers underneath. There's a quiet and discreet 3x5' pride flag he bought before the pride parade last year hanging in the corner that he smiles at.

Harry stops by the books and food on the floor. He pokes the empty pizza box with his foot.

"No offense, Lou, but you look like shit," he says, sending Louis an apologetic look.

Louis' brows wander up as he watches the boy grin. He notices the shadow of care crossing Harry's face, too.

He cracks a smile. “Can’t all be as pretty as you, Miss Steele.”

He realises he broke one of their rules too late, but sighs it off. He closes the door, before peeking out to shoo away his smug-faced aunt from behind the corner of the short hall. He walks up to the pile on the floor and starts picking up the books.

"Ouch.” Harry hisses and smacks his lips. “Low blow. And by ‘shit’ I mean like you need forty hours of sleep," he adds, sinking onto the bottom bunk, "a blowjob, and a shower."

"Shove that brutal honesty up your behind, Hazza, I don’t need a spirit lifter." Louis waves a hand as he piles up the school stuff on the edge of his desk.

He takes a look at the screens on his desk to check if the computer’s not turned on. After a second, he realises he could have just listened if the systems were running. He suppresses an eye roll and turns to Harry who's watching him intently.

"Maybe I should go?" Harry asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his lap.

"No, no." Louis reaches down for the pizza box and empty cups. "I just need to take this out and grab a coffee, and we can do," he draws a circle with his hand clutching on the Monte cups, "whatever you wanted to do. I guess."

Harry cocks an eyebrow at him, a smug smile widening his lips.

"Whatever I want to do, huh?"

"Jesus on a stick and sweet mother of pickles, I hate you." Louis sighs, walking up the few steps to the door.

“I know you mean love.”

“Be right back, don't snoop around.”

“Copy that." The boy nods, reaching out for one of the two bananas and Louis’ English essay. “Roger. No touchy.”

Louis listens to his sixth sense, seeking for any warning, but he finds none.

With a fluttering heart and, as he realises, heated cheeks, he pads to the kitchen where he's met with Jay's smug smile thrown over the backrest of the couch.

“Not. A. Word,” he warns, pointing at her with the pizza box.

"Not a word." She grins at him, hands raised in surrender, and goes back to watching the news. "Nice hoodie."

Louis looks down at what he tugged on in a rush. He almost lets out a long, exasperated sigh at the sight of bright pink material with huge glittery Winnie the Pooh all across his front. It's a thing he knew he had, but it was stashed deep in his closet. At least it had been, until he turned his clothes upside down in a search for a party outfit.

He tucks the carton next to the trash can in the cupboard under the sink and throws the cups out. He tries to steady his breath and calm down in attempt to make the blush disappear. Seriously, he can throw a car like it's a baseball and take six guys in a dark alley, but he is absolutely incapable of containing himself when Harry's near. That's just straight-up embarrassing.

He waits for his coffee to pour into a cup, tapping his fingers on the counter top.

"Mind if I go see Maura?" Jay gets up from her seat and approaches Louis.

“Jay, you’re a literal adult perfectly capable and legally allowed to make your own choices,” Louis says, cupping his coffee in two hands and turning the machine off. He turns a bit to face his aunt who’s busy putting her dishes into a sink.

“The last time I visited her you got upset because I came back too late,” she reminds him.

“‘Cause you said you were gonna be in at nine, I was worried,” Louis huffs. “After everything, you know, I’m...”

“It’s fine, sweetheart.” Jay gives him a warm smile and walks up to place a kiss on his forehead. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back by ten.”

“Yeah, sure.” Louis nods mindlessly.

She squeezes his shoulder and walks out of the kitchen, crossing paths with Harry.

“Didn’t mean to overhear, but it appears as if we’re left alone, pick-a-boo.” Harry leans against the fridge.

“Drop your pants and grab your crocs, we’re gonna cannonball in my shower.”

“Really?”

“No. _House_ marathon?” Louis suggests, stepping towards the sink and rolling up his sleeves. “Take it or leave it.”

“Season one, I hope.”

Louis turns to meet Harry’s eyes and see if he’s taking the piss. Then his eyes drop down.

“Why does your hoodie say 'butt why not'?”

Harry shrugs in response. "Why do you have a _Winnie the Pooh_ hoodie?"

"Don't question greatness.”

"Bee tee dubs, you need new sheets, yours are gross, you know?”

Louis goes back to washing the few dishes, trying to deal with the fact that Harry isn't wearing a headscarf, and his hair is literally everywhere. The locks are messy, presumably washed this morning and left to dry on their own, and falling into Harry's deer-like eyes as he stares at Louis with a pout. His shirt and hoodie are crooked and ruffled as if he had a one-way pillow fight.

He’d would be lying if he said he doesn't like that look. His brain short-circuiting can confirm.

“They’re yellow," he says absently, remembering he was addressed with words.

“They’re gross.”

“No getting laid on my sheets, understood, and to think I was gonna suggest.”

Harry whines.

“Chrissakes, Itake it back. You sure you wanna keep the list going?”

Louis clears his throat, suppressing the urge to not look aside. He really does need to get it together as soon as possible. This just can't keep on happening.

"Yep."

“It’s so unfair, you know? You can’t just be the hottest guy at school and whoosh away my advances. I mean, you can, but at what cost?”

Louis snorts. “I have fifty shades of grey under my eyes, a bedhead taken straight from the book with the pictures of people that have been struck by lightning, and a pink _Winnie the Pooh_ hoodie on, and that’s your definition of hot? Are you okay? Do you need a pair of glasses right now?”

He can feel Harry’s eyes scan Louis face like he's the best exhibition in the fanciest museum on Earth.

“Perfectly healthy. Although I think my heart is rolling on the opposite of flat-lining, but that's okay.”

Louis flushes pink, drying his hands into a towel and trying not to think about how much he’d give to be his old, average self again.

"What gives, anyway?” he changes the topic to a more comfortable one, and something that hasn't crossed his mind until now. Apparently knowing the reason for Harry being around isn't a necessity as long as Harry's around.

He grabs his cup and sighs audibly when he discovers his coffee hasn’t cooled yet..

A huge smile creeps on Harry’s face and Louis gets to see only a flash of his exposed teeth before the boy throws himself at Louis, knocking the air out of his lungs and almost spilling the coffee as he wraps him in a hug.

“Wanted to thank you,” he says into the material of Louis' hoodie, his sweet scent wandering into Louis’ subconscious and slowly drugging him.

“Personal space, man. Come on. Ugh.” Resigned, Louis reciprocates the hug with one arm. His hand wandering up the boy's back, palm feeling out the sped up heartbeat and shaky breath. “You're welcome,” he says quietly, not sure if the boy caught it. He's positive when the hug tightens, and suddenly Harry's hands are nowhere but on his butt. "Harry.” He digs a finger under his ribs, making the boy squirm. “S’called sexual assault.”

“Let me have it,” the boy mumbles. “I know you’re giving consent. Otherwise you’d have pushed me away. I have my arms full of hot stuff and a working brain. Greater men than I would concede.”

"Unbelievable.” Louis sighs, listening to Harry's giggle as he cushions his cheek in the soft material of the boy's hoodie.

A few seconds of silence passes until Harry speaks up again in a whisper.

“A thank you kiss is a no-go, isn't it?”

Louis doesn't have to withdraw from the hug to know the pout Harry does when he shakes his head slightly, but enough to feel. His heart drops, but he knows it's the right thing to do.

“How is he in person?” he asks, attempting a casual tone. "Did he meet your expectations?"  

“He’s amazing?” Harry pulls away and grins hands on Louis’ shoulders. “He’s like, he’s tiny like you, which means you probably didn’t lie, he can’t be a full-ass adult. And did you see his bottom? Because, pardon my French, fuck me, his bottom. It’s almost as good as yours. Did I just say it out loud?”

“You did.” Louis laughs, feeling himself light up at the boy’s enthusiasm. He watches Harry’s face color in excitement and sheer happiness, his own heart growing a little fonder, and takes a sip of his coffee. “Milk. I need milk.”

“Good. ‘Cause it’s true and you should know it.” Harry withdraws his arms, letting Louis walk up to the fridge. “He’s awesome. I spent two minutes with him but let me tell you, I’d die for him already. He said he’d let you know when he’s free so we can meet up.”

“He told me the same thing.” He beckons at Harry and starts approaching the couch.

“God, I envy you. You talk to him daily. He’s so nice.”

Much to Louis’ surprise, Harry, instead of walking around the couch, literally steps over it, sits on its backrest first, and then slides down to sit properly. He pats the seat beside him.

“I don’t bite.”

Louis only hands him his cup and gestures at the coffee table, clicking his wrists together. He grips onto the web-shooters absently.

"I'll go lose the, uh, the hoodie and take a wee. The DVDs are under the TV. Season one."

 

 

Here's the thing about New York: rent is insane, everything smells like garbage, the city gets trashed by a massacre every few years, and more often than not you can expect to see a figure in a red and blue onesie swinging around buildings on a synthetic web and climbing up walls with nothing but his own hands. You can basically expect anything, aliens and a witch included.

It really shouldn’t ruffle Louis in any way that by the time he’s back in the living room, Harry’s spread across the couch, already on the first episode of season one, and eating from a bowl full of chocolate cookies balancing on his stomach. Somehow, it still does.

“Before you call me names, your aunt treated me with these,” Harry informs him as soon as Louis steps in front of the couch. “Unless the name rhymes with ‘glove’, then go ahead, I’m all ears.”

“Dove?”

“If I had a list of reasons why I like you it’d be on fire right now. Come ‘ere, I'm using you as a pillow.”

Louis knows he should say no, and that he should take the armchair, but nevertheless he ends up with his almost completely cold coffee in his hands and a storm of curls on his lap.

He was mistaken if he thought they would actually watch the show.

“Either that shirt is a fashion statement or you robbed Stark’s closet for his vintage collection.”

“Once again, Tony isn’t—” Louis scoffs, looking down at his shirt, and pauses. “Oh.”

“That’s the special edition from seven years ago. The artist only made five hundred of these. Where did you get it?”

Louis meets Harry’s curious eyes again. He argues with himself for a minute before replying.

“It was Dan’s.”

“Whomst?” Harry frowns, sucking on another cookie.

“It’s whose. My uncle’s,” Louis explains, lifting his head to stare at the pilot episode. “He was... We were big fans.”

“I know it’s _whose_. Were?”

Despite his best attempts, the air shifts and grows heavy in his lungs, guilt spreading and digging its claws into his heart.

“Hey, sorry.” Harry pats him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to go down a dark memory lane.”

“It’s not dark,” Louis protests. “I’m just, uh.”

“Do you want to talk about it? About, you know…” Harry waves a hand.

“Dead uncle?”

“Wow, don’t be so bold, or else I’m gonna think you murdered him in cold blood.”

Louis goes back to the staring, settling into the hard and painful current drilling through his chest. His insides have begun to rapidly hollow themselves out, leaving him with very little breath, but he manages to take in a lungful.

Harry’s quick to start gathering himself up from his lying position. “I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out.”

“Stay.” Louis pushes him back down, his cup weighing on the boy’s sternum. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“If it makes you feel better, I burnt my finger today while making lasagna.”

It does pull the corners of Louis’ mouth upward, in spite of everything. He lets his eyelids fall shut for a few seconds and evens out his breath.

“Are you—do you get anxiety attacks? I can help.” Harry pats him again. The playful note doesn’t color his voice anymore. “Do I need to call someone?”

“No, Haz.” Louis catches his hand and places is back on the boy stomach without looking. “I’m fine. It’s just that there hasn’t been enough time for me to get over it.”

“When was it?”

“A year ago,” he replies easily, falling back onto his usual track of control of his senses and steady heartbeat. He knows that if it goes downhill, it will be another day ruined by depression, fear, and disgust he has for himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. But thanks.”

“Always.”

Louis looks down. “Don’t say that.”

“What, ‘always’?” Harry frowns.

“Can we just watch the show?”

The silence takes over again, and it’s uncomfortable in the way Harry’s eyes are trained on Louis as he’s trying to decipher something without words. Louis knows that he won’t be successful in his attempts, it’s the one thing that he knows nobody can see through the heart on his sleeve.

“Yeah, sure.”

It takes Louis three episodes to realise that he’s been drawing circles over the small, round scar over Harry’s collarbone. He makes to stop but Harry’s fingers curl around his wrist, holding his hand in place. The guilt humming in the background hides the newborn one well, and he doesn’t think he’s so happy about that.

 

 

Louis slowly begins to wake up, vaguely aware of warmth spread out along his thighs. He hums a little, relaxed and at ease, before realizing that this is not a normal way for him to wake up. As a matter of fact, _relaxed and at ease_ is not a normal way for him to wake up.

Soon after the last remains of a dreamless nap turn to ashes, the familiar creak of an opening front door crawls through his consciousness and draws his eyelids open. His gaze wanders to his aunt walking into the apartment.

They exchange looks, hers dropping to Louis’ lap, then to the TV, and back to Louis. Without a word, she smiles, toes her shoes off before going to grab a book from the bookcase standing in the corner of the living room, shuffles a bit in the kitchen behind Louis’ back, and disappears in the hall.

When the click of the door closing bounces of the walls, Louis finally dares to glance downwards, taking one last check on the TV to realize that it’s already the sixth episode playing.

Harry seems to have fallen into asleep not so long ago, given that the remote hasn’t fallen out of the hand positioned on his stomach, fingers still curled around it pretty tight. What surprises Louis is that the boy’s body is taut, exuding stress and wariness, as if he’s ready to pull out a gun at any moment in his sleep. It seems like a defense mechanism, and Louis can’t help but frown.

Letting his heart take over for a second, he raises an arm from where it lays Harry’s chest and pokes his ribs.

The last hints of sleep gone, Harry’s now clearly bent on the idea of squeezing the life out of Louis’ wrist. More from the action itself than the actual pressure of the grip, Louis winces a little.

“Hey, it’s just me. Don’t call nine-one-one.”

“Jesus tap-dancing _Christ_.” Harry releases him and lets his arm fall back onto his stomach. “Warn a guy next time you touch me while I’m asleep. Consent, man, it’s a thing. Don’t make me recite the definition.”

“Said the guy who groped my ass for no reason. You’re literally sprawled over me and the thought of me poking you awake suddenly has something to do with consent? Where was my option when you decided to crash my junk and thighs?”

“You agreed.”

“I didn’t think this plan through.” Louis’ hands fling to his face as lets out a small yawn, then licks his dry lips and looks down at Harry’s milky face and wary eyes. “Have we even watched anything?”

“I have, Princess Aurora. You’ve been playin’ dead for quite a bit, and my artistic adventures took a toll on me, so I joined around,” Harry squints at the clock hanging over the TV, “ten minutes ago.”

Louis’ gaze falls on the arm he’s got sprawled across the boy’s chest noticing the unusual decor on his skin. Drawings. Colorful, drawn with the three pens that tend to be left behind by Jay after she makes her crosswords. There are animals, figures done in something between kawaii and comic style, letters, and a few spiders. Some of them are more detailed, more effort must have been put into them, and Louis starts wondering how and when Harry had the time to put them on his forearm.

“How long was I out?” he asks, examining his arm.

“Two episodes,” Harry informs, turning his attention to the TV.

“Mind explaining why my arm looks like it fell asleep in a kindergarten?”

“Couple tattoos.” Harry shows him the clean flesh of his arm except for the little spider on his own wrist without looking back. “I mean, at least until I take a shower. Sorry, baby, mating for life is stupid. There's plenty of Harry to go around.”

“If you find a mate, you should be loyal. Or in your case, grateful,” Louis recites what he remembers from the reference.

“Jeez, you’re a real catch, remind me why I can’t touch the booty yet?”

“Apparently the booty's not remarkable enough for you to remember you touched it a couple of hours ago. That what it takes?” Louis chuckles. “Old movies references and a Ghost-of-Christmas-Past mug?”

“And a booty," the last word rolls off Harry's tongue in a way that reminds Louis of Daisy mocking his stern tone. "Don't forget the booty.”

Louis rubs face with the hand that once was holding a cup—he now notices it standing on the coffee table. He likes to think he’s grown accustomed to the night life routine but his body has a tendency to grumble and fight his schedule at every opportunity, so another yawn escapes his mouth, this time covered by his forearm.

His body screams at him to go back to sleep, but instead he tightens his grip around Harry’s ribcage and focuses on the TV. The boy stiffens slightly, but otherwise doesn’t react.

It turns out that Harry can indeed watch in silence. He seems engaged in what happens on the screen, sometimes laughs, sometimes murmurs a quiet ‘samesies’, but most of the time he’s utterly into the show. Louis couldn’t be happier. He hates when people interrupt during his _House_ marathons.

At the beginning of episode six, Harry pokes his wrist.

“Can I know what’s up with Liam’s folks?”

Louis grabs the remote from where it lies under Harry’s arm and pauses the show to look properly at the boy. He takes some time to admire the way the chocolate curls create a swirly halo around his head, although doesn’t allow himself to get lost in the green eyes.

“As in?”

Harry puffs his cheeks. “I don’t like digging into this kind of stuff, but he's not out, is he? He hasn't told me he's not straight, don't look at me like I just said I'd cut your legs off, chill. It just shows. Plus, there’ve been times when he'd mention his parents, and his face looked just as loving as mine when my mom tried to have me eat raisins. He doesn't really seem to be hanging out anywhere after school. You know, just curious. If it's not a secret, of course, otherwise ignore me.”

Louis sighs and runs a hand through his tangled hair. He considers the question for three seconds, and finally figures that he can share with Harry the facts that aren't classified as top secret.

"Liam's parents are the kind of people you'll see in church every goddamn Sunday and every very important Christian thingy that I can never keep up with. That is, as far as their jobs allow them to." He glimpses back at Harry. "Liam is, uh... I don't feel comfortable with labelling him for you.”

“Fair.”

“Yeah.” Louis rubs his nose. “It was all tough, though, his parents are just trash. They don't like me, I don't like them, we're even on this ground, but then there's Liam and every time he goes home, he's…”

“He looks like he's going to prison,” Harry supplies. “So I've seen.”

Louis nods and grimaces. “I can't really understand his situation, you know, I have a great aunt, but I can be here for him, so that's what I'm doing. Me and Niall. Liam plans to leave soon after graduation, which is no surprise. I mean, you can't really call home a place that feels more like a forced round-the-clock homophobic ramble and a no-talk zone 'cause whatever you say is turned against you."

A few seconds of silence fills the room until Harry sucks in a short breath. There's another layer in the tone of his voice when he speaks, but Louis can't distinguish what it's about.

"That's terrible. I'm sorry.’

When he turns his head away to face the paused show again, Louis realises he knows absolutely nothing about Harry's family. Nevertheless, he promised himself he'd make no attachments, however weak it sounds even to himself given the current situation. He tells himself that the physical contact is something very different  to learning about their life.

"So moving out, huh?" Harry speaks up again, starting to mindlessly caress Louis’ painted arm.

"Mh?"

"Liam. You said he's moving out after graduation, then university.” He shifts again, snuggling his cheek into the material of Louis’ shirt. “And you? Any plans after graduation? Are you moving out, too?"

"Dunno." Louis shrugs. "Kinda stopped thinking about it after..." _After my focus switched from planning years ahead to planning an hour ahead._ "I just don't know. I guess.”

"But really. M.I.T.? Stark would probably clear the path for you there. I bet he's got some pulls at multiple universities.”

"Robotics itself isn't really my thing. It's more of Niall's."

"And you're into...?”

"Everything, really. Engineering. Biology. Chemistry. Sleep deprivation. Pizza with tomatoes.” Getting my ass kicked every goddamn day. "Biophysics would be cool. A job at SI, maybe. Oscorp creeps me out.”

"The internship with the most prominent company in America on your application would really boost your chances, so you’ll get anywhere. Kinda envious over here." Harry sniffs. "And I prefer tacos."

Louis knows that if he actually was doing his internship and he could get Tony to sign off on the fact that, yes, Louis did all the work himself on a project of his choice, he'd gain a huge advantage over everybody else if he ended up applying to college. He just really has stopped thinking about it. It's been all about passing tests, doing homework, and patrolling lately. He will graduate with flying colors that's for sure, but later? He really hasn't given it a thought in a while.

"And you?" he flicks the focus from himself to Harry.

Harry squints at him, as if trying to decide if he should push or let Louis get away with no final answer.

"Columbia or NYU,” he replies easily.

"So why did you pick a nerd school if you're not into science?"

"Ain't sayin' that I'm not into science, snookums." He jab Louis in the stomach. “I like science. I’m good at it. Good enough to be in Midtown High. I have some troubles with chemistry, but I manage.”

"You have AP chemistry with me."

"Your point being?"

Louis shakes his head.

"Okay, but what if you don't make it in the journalism department?” he presses. “What if your job sucks or you can’t find one?"

“What if, what if,” Harry mocks. “I told you. It is what it is until it really isn't. Then you just look over your cards, change them, cheat sometimes, knock someone out, and keep on playing. Just play the cards, Lou.” He pauses. His heart rate picks up a little speed, but when he speaks again his voice is still plainly casual. “I may end up having superpowers, get bitten by a cockroach, and make it through apocalypse. Who knows? I prefer having ideas for the future, not plans."

Louis wants to say something, but ends up only staring at Harry.

The last strands of light coming from the TV dance on the side of pale flesh that's still partly facing the screen. He takes in the already familiar comfort and safety he feels when Harry's around. He hasn't gotten to get to know the boy much, he doesn't even know his middle name or favorite hobby, yet it's in the unspoken, unexplainable thing hanging between them that he feels like he could just stay by his side and be happy just for that reason.

“Hey, remember Gwen’s party?” Harry casts a question, his focus still on the TV.

“No way I wouldn’t.” Louis feels himself blush involuntarily.

Harry snorts. “Settle down, Christian Gray, I’m not talking about your body on mine. Wasn’t going to, at least. Not aloud.”

“Oh, weren’t you?”

“Listen, it’s kinda hard to construct a proper sentence when you’ve got a lapful of me and a hand stroking my hair.”

“My hand is not—” Louis blinks and glances down. He withdraws his hand, crimson crawling up his neck, and refuses to meet Harry’s eyes. “I promise I didn’t intend for it to happen. Personal space.”

“I don’t know her.” Harry gives him a shit-eating grin, and goes back to watching the show. “Still, I wasn’t gonna talk about how suspiciously hard your abs were under my hands on that day. I’m trying to be serious for once.”

“For once?” Louis’ eyebrow quirks up despite the fact that Harry isn’t looking.

“Happens sometimes, don’t hold it against me. _Anygays_. Remember Zayn pursuing his infatuation with Liam?”

“Don’t you mean ‘anyways’?”

“Harry Styles and ‘average’ don’t go in one sentence, I thought it’s been made pretty clear by now. Focus, lady. Zayn. Leeyum.”

A quick memory flashes through Louis’ mind. “Ok, sorta.”

Harry nods. “I think something happened after we’d taken off.”

“As in?”

“Zaynie’s been ugly fonding over his phone for a few days now,” Harry explains, mindlessly scratching his forehead. “Can’t have a normal conversation with him.”

Louis begins to wonder if he’s seen any change in Liam’s behavior. He doesn’t remember any complaints or any time his friend would act abnormal. He still leaves the school soon on his cue, still attends his extras, still smiles the same way when they pass each other in the halls.

“Liam’s not been off recently, I don’t know,” he says doubtfully.

“We did literally just have a conversation skirting the topic of Liam’s closet, I don’t expect him to bounce all off the wall lovey-dovey at school.”

Louis doesn't answer to that.

It's about three minutes later when Harry rubs and scrunches his nose.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?” Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“I just figured out a new rule.”

“I thought we'd wordlessly agreed to ditch them. But shoot.”

“This.” Louis mimics the nose scrunch. “Out. It's, like, lethal. Killing me.”

“It's a habit.” Harry repeats the scrunch, crossing his eyes for good measure and making Louis chuckle. “I'm addicted to cute guys who don't want a dating life. It comes into play when I meet one.”

The thing is, Louis may be an infatuated idiot, but… Yeah. That's basically it.

Harry busies himself with playing with Louis' wrists like they're a set of porcelain dishes from the wreck of Titanic, and Louis pretends the touch doesn't affect his conflicted heart.

 

**February the 18th, Sunday**

 

It’s cold. Too cold. My-ass-is-gonna-fall-off cold.

If Louis thought it cannot get worse, he was absolutely wrong. It’s not like he’s changing in an alley on a winter day for the first time in his life. It’s also not his first time sneaking out with a backpack on while being eyed by his aunt on his way out.

He loses his clothes and discards them on the slippy ground in the narrow path tucked between two buildings on the other side of Queens Boulevard. With chattering teeth and a few sniffs, he puts on the loose suit and quickly presses on the button on his sternum. The material tightens around every inch of his body, the heater turning on immediately and warming up his skin. He puffs out a sigh of relief, a shudder running through his nerves and bones.

After stashing most of his civvies into the backpack, he tugs the mask on and lets its hem tighten and adjust around the bottom of his neck. The weather condition and vitals data pop up on the heads-up screen of his lenses, forecasting warmer days, as he slides on the hoodie.

He throws his backpack up the windowless wall, webs it in the shadows, and springs off the ground. He catches the opposite building, then a windowsill, a string of web is shot at the ledge of the roof, and he’s up in a matter of seconds.

 _Finally_.

Here’s the thing about the mask—Louis loves it.

At first, it was to hide his baby face and general identity as a result of his inner fight whether he should be his official self or hide his name. It became obvious early on that people wouldn’t enjoy seeing a scrawny teenager put his butt in the path of danger, and the government would sure as hell not approve of his actions.

Mask it was, then.

With time, he’s learned to appreciate it more. Once he puts it on, he can be whoever he wants to be. He’s not Louis Tomlinson anymore, he’s Spider-Man. He can be confident, snarky, brave, and courageous, everything he’s not once he puts on civilian clothes. He gets to be someone people actually look up to instead look down on.

As far as his life goes, and despite his ease when it comes to studying and functioning in the society, he often feels out of the place, just like a lot of other people. Spider-Man has crafted into something akin to home. He puts on the suit and everything is right in the world, he isn't Louis, that parentless nerd from Queens, he's a masked New York hero, and that's something to live for.

Even after all this time he can’t decide whether he loves what he got or if he hates it. Sometimes he thinks he’ll never know the answer.

A bike thief and a cheeseburger later, it turns out that being on the phone while swinging isn't as easy as it seems, especially on a chilly February morning.

“Why are you running out of breath?” Niall asks in the middle of an unfinished sentence.

“I'm..." Louis looks down from where he's hanging in the air above a skyscraper in Manhattan. “I'm jogging.”

His body falls back down, gaining speed as he cuts through the air upright with slightly curled up legs.

Quick flip, shot, pull up.

“Louis, it’s seven in the damn morning. You don’t fucking jog unless it’s running away from the Dementor. And even then your storming away which ain’t got nothing to do with jogging.”

“I can’t help it, she looks like she’s about to eat me alive ever since I corrected—Ouch. I corrected her that it’s oxytocin, not oxytoci _ne_ ,” he mimics Hermione’s tone lazily.

Louis webs another building and hoists himself up, muffling a whimper caused by the sudden jerk, and lands on the glass halfway up Queens Park Plaza. He flashes a thumbs up to the startled people sitting in the office behind the glass, then turns to crouch with his back facing the workers and feet stuck to the solid surface leaning a bit forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Niall sighs.

“Whatever, but if you're in the middle of jerkin' off and talkin' to me, we're done.”

"Jesus _Christ_."

"Anyways. I’m calling because when you said you were gonna do some stupid shit, I kinda thought you meant bungee or eating raw frogs." Niall slurps something on the other side of the phone. "They're not as tasty as they look, but drink it down with Ice Tea and you'll live."

Louis frowns, rubbing his nose to prevent it from freezing. "Why would you eat raw frogs?"

"You know, there are questions I wish you'd never have to ask."

"It's a simple question, Ni, you idiot, why would you eat raw frogs?"

"And why would you do something you disagreed to in the first place? Something that definitely doesn't give off your," almost hearable quote marks in the air here, "keep at a distance vibe."

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean?”

“Uh, yeah, you sure as hell have absolutely nothing to do with Harry’s I’m-about-to-shit-rainbows mood ever since Saturday morning.”

Louis tilts his head. "Oh, this."

" _Oh, this._ I really thought you'd do something like, dunno, throw a balloon with orange juice on him or draw dicks on his locker, somethin' that would make him dislike you, but you're doing the complete fucking opposite, and I just don’t get it." Even through the phone it’s obvious Niall’s about to throw hands. “What the hell? Date him. Ask him out. Have sex. Use protection. Have children. Preferably two so I can steal one. The hell you think you’re doin’? What’s your plan here, man? Do you even have a plan or you’re just doing random shit and hoping you won’t get anyone hurt in the process?"

Louis knows his actions don't add up.

"Don't want to. Date him. I don’t want to."

"What _do_ you want?" Niall seems to be completely done, and Louis can perfectly picture him facepalming right now. "Do you even know what you want? 'Cause all you're doing is messin' 'round, and Harry's very much into you, so whatever the game is that you're playin', you better play it right. I’ve had enough of babysitting with Liam. I don’t say I’m not ready to help or that I’m not happy we helped him, but we can avoid it, dude, if you only acted like a standard specimen of homo sapiens."

Louis scrunches his nose, eyes running away in guilt, even though his friend isn’t physically here.

"I don’t like it when you play the therapist game, man."

"And I don’t like your ‘life’s complicated’ game, _man_ ," Niall retorts. "You used to be much simpler."

"Not everything is simple, Ni."

"Oh, but yes, it is." Niall howls, pitching his voice. "The longest algebraic expression can be two-letters long if you simplify it, and it goes both ways. Whatever you think is complex, is actually really, really simple. Not more than a week ago you were going bananas and talking my ears off about what you just agreed to." He pauses for a few seconds. "How's this complicated? What changed? Do you know how I feel right now?"

“I’m sorry, I just... I didn't want him to be sad," Louis admits without thinking.

“Explain,” Niall demands.

Louis takes a few seconds to look down at the city from where he’s sitting, and decides it’s actually kind of rude to show your bottom to people who want to work. He turns and starts scaling the building higher.

"It was a shit thing of me to do, turn him down that is, and I never meant to hurt him,” he says finally. “Yet I still did, and I think there’s… I think, apparently, my natural default mode is making Harry happy. He wanted that interview, so I made it happen. For him. I don’t know why, it just felt like a right thing to do.”

Niall doesn't say anything for a while, so Louis has the time to settle himself on the ledge of the tower.

"And you figured that nodding yes to what you dressed me down for a week ago is a good idea?" Niall asks exasperatedly.

"I never said it was a good idea. I said it was a stupid-ass idea," Louis corrects. "But what else could I do?" He draws up a finger as if his friend was actually standing in front of him. "Don't you dare to say date him."

"Fucking date him." Niall offers with a sad smirk.

"Yeah, no, thanks."

Louis swings his legs, refusing to allow the memories of Valentine’s Day to crawl back in his head now.

Niall speaks up again, but this time it’s quietly and firmly, with a dose of this-is-not-going-to-end-well tone.

"You have no idea what you're doing." It's not a question.

Louis’ focus is currently on the suspicious looking man walking towards a small alley behind a diner. The guy's back is hunched, he looks to the sides from time to time as if checking if nobody is watching. No one really is, to be honest, it's always like New Yorkers don't give a shit about criminals walking among them. It's rubbing Louis' nerves the wrong way, the ignorance and irresponsibility that people show.

If only a quarter of the society's tried to pay attention to what's happening around them, the crime statistics would drop at least twenty percentage points.

The spider-sense tingles when the man turns and disappears behind the corner.

_I know you probably hate this arm-length relationship, but he’s learned the hard way that everyone who’s in his orbit eventually ends up getting wounded._

Louis shrugs like the guilt in his heart doesn't weight a thing, pulling his mask down.  Adrenaline rushes through his veins at the thought of a few hours of patrol, his hero game only an addition to the crazy that New York is on a good day.

_It’s better for you if he keeps his distance._

“He’s better off without me.”

“You make absolutely zero sense.”

“I know, I… Yeah, I know.”

 

**February the 19th, Monday**

 

"Mannequins, man. Mannequins are the reason I have trust issues. I mean, take these pants? On this dude they look like he's got an on-point booty, yeah? And I get them, same damn size as I always do, and I look like unassembled origami."

Louis is about to react to Harry’s words but then his gaze darts up from the phone where he’s been on his sixth sudoku in the last fifteen minutes, and boy, was that a mistake to look up.

He has expected it to happen. At some point. In the future.

But not that near future, goddammit.

"I know I once tried the magic mushrooms and that I'm probably far from mentally alright, so please tell me you see that huge ass shiny sparkling limo parked in front of the school too or else I'm never drinking Mr. Clean again."

Louis' head snaps towards Harry standing by his side—apparently they stopped walking at some point,—his brain trying to digest the words and completely failing. He thinks he lets out a grunt that's neither an agreement nor a disagreement, but he's not one to care about something so trivial when Norman Osborn is standing five feet away from him.

 _The_ Norman Osborn. In person. In front of the stairs leading to the front door of his school.

Just a casual Monday, why not?

The man seems to not give a shit about Harry's words or Harry whatsoever as he's eyeing Louis top to bottom. And, God, is it a fierce gaze.

"Mister Tomlinson.”

He slides his hands into the pockets of his pants in an ostensibly casual way. The evil demeanor and spider-sense running on the sixth gear betray the hell out of his disguise.

Louis can't say he's gotten used to Tony's billionaire chic, but even if he gets self-conscious and anxious when in the company of one of the richest men alive, he has never felt so small and so valueless as he does now.

The red of the man's short hair is covered in several thousand dollar of hairspray causing it to almost glow even ona gray day like today. His shirt is either starched or scared of crumpling in the presence of Norman, and the suit looks like it wouldn't dare to collect a single speck of dust. Louis is sure that if he tried he's see his reflection in the man's shoes.

He's not gonna try.

And then, well.

Louis loves Harry's green eyes. By now he can admit it—he absolutely _adores_ Harry's green eyes. And it’s been like an hour that they’ve known each other. He's thought that nothing could beat the forest-y green of Harry's eyes.

He stands corrected.

Kind of. Sort of. Not in a good way.

The piercing green of Norman Osborn's eyes seems to be not only scanning every inch of Louis, but also claiming him and he doesn't like it, to say the least.

When Louis doesn't respond, the man speaks up again. Louis’ pretty sure he's never heard such poorly disguised evil.

"I would appreciate it if you spared me a couple of minutes. I believe we have something we need to talk through. It's a matter of urgency." The smile that stretches the man's lips looks horror-ish at best. His eyes drop down and pause there for a second.

Louis follows his gaze automatically, and it’s only now he notices the tight grip Harry has on his hand. He's a bit perplexed to not have felt it sooner. He gently squeezes back, trying to find some familiar comfort in the steady beat of Harry’s heart.

He's not scared, no. Alright, he's terrified, and so what?

"I'm actually going home now," he says and clears his throat, hearing his voice going hoarse and pitched. "So, uh. Yeah."

"I must insist, Mister Tomlinson. It's just a matter of a few minutes, I'm sure your extracurriculars and other activities can wait that long.”

The emphasis on 'activities’ is barely noticeable, and Louis thinks he has to thank his enhanced hearing for letting him know that Norman Osborn in fact appears to know exactly what activities Louis performs in his debatably free time.

 


	2. candy-coating

 

[you can check out the suit Louis has [here](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DFHHEqMUIAAeWNl.jpg) ]

 

 

 

Louis’ most serious, biggest concern was whether he still classifies as a human or not. Correction—used to be. That was two weeks ago. Two hours ago, even. He now thinks that the only thing he classifies as is 'in danger’ but that's just him, what does he know, it's not like pure evil is dripping out from Norman Osborn’s eyes and he seems seconds away from pulling out a sword or seven. Or, like, a bomb. Depends on the mood, most likely.

He can deal with that. Right after he learns how to fly.

Quick facts. Norman Osborn. One of the richest men alive. Known for a couple of innovations in biotechnology that have helped thousands of patients around the world. A living legend in the biology and medicine departments. On the laundry list of people every nerd would die to meet.

Louis, personally, would rather die than meet him. It’s just common sense.

The man is sitting opposite him, the varnished white interior of the car contrasting with not only Norman’s clothes, but also the dripping black demeanor of evil that's somehow visible in the air. 

Despite the distance, Louis can’t help but feel the man’s breath on his neck. It’s silly and maybe stupid, but by now he knows better than to dismiss his sixth sense sending shivers down his spine and the abort alerts thudding in his head.

Before either of them can speak and things can go down the sewer—because it's quite obvious they will—Louis realizes he might as well use his enhanced sight. 

Bad idea. The grayish pallor and cracks on his skin, and the fine blood vessels giving a bloodshot appearance to the man’s eyes definitely do not detract from the already demonic appearance. Louis’ guts twist.

He doesn’t get to think about it too much, though, as a lime hued hologram flickers between them. He clutches protectively at the straps of the backpack lying by his side.

“How are you, kid?”

“Seventeen.” _What was the question?_

He needs to chill out. This way, maybe he'll be given a choice on how he'll die. 

No. He'll be _fine_. He still has to watch half of the second season of _House_ , and _Split_ , not to mention eat the tomato soup that Jay promised to try cooking today. Without being picky, still being alive is also kinda cool.

“VHL.” Norman leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee and using the free hand to swipe on the hologram. Something akin to test results spreads across the screen. “Or Von Hippel-Lindau Syndrome. If detected early, life expectancy hits fifty years. Left untreated may result in blindness, permanent brain damage, or death.” Another slide. “Sarcoma, stage four. Spread to distant sites. Alone? Rarely curable with a little help from doxorubicin and ifosfamide, laratumb, maybe gemcitabine and docetaxel. If paired with VHL, life expectancy of a handful of years.”

Silence fills the car as Louis reads the test results. Every letter, every number, every word and name, and color, and every goddamn dot. He looks for something dissident to the words he's just heard. He finds nothing.

The screen disappears. He blinks and looks up, meeting expectant eyes.

“You can speak.”

Louis wants to. He really does. He should. And run. Running away is a good idea.

“I’m sorry?” he tries weakly and swallows, drying his hands on the material of his fur-lined jacket.

“I never asked for your pity, Mister Tomlinson. I do not need pity.”

“I am… not sorry?”

“You’re funny.” Norman crooks his lips into a devilish grin. “Let’s get down to business. I need you.”

“I can’t even make pancakes, just forewarning you,” Louis blurts out, scratching his knee. His heartbeat seems to have gone nonexistent. “Last time I tried to make lasagna, three bananas and an avocado ended up on the ceiling. There were no bananas in the lasagna recipe.”

A chuckle.

“Let me lay it out as plain and simple as possible, then,” the man says, his voice light and trivial, like he's reading a grocery list of corpses he needs to prepare the dinner. “I own you. And I need you, as much as it pains me to say it. You are who you are because of me. I appreciate the spirit of your hero-like alter ego, but that preposterous onesie of yours will have some alone time since you’ll be busy.”

Louis tries to swallow. He fails.

“Own?”

“Funny, I know.” The man nods. “At first I hoped it was a joke, too. You see, I got a tiny wind of a rumor that one of the students visiting Oscorp fainted in the middle of a laboratory. You know how it is, kids these days, pass out at the sight of an ant. But then I saw the security camera footage. And let me tell you, Mister Tomlinson, I was, how do you say it... Worried. You can say I was worried.” Another vile smirk. “That was a very precious spider, a very expensive one. It was to be the future of medicine. We were about to start human trials after the successful experience on the OO arachnid specimen. The very one that happened to abscond from our lab and bite you." He points at Louis with a finger that might as well be a sword. “Out of all possible passers-by, the little shit bit a useless teenager. What a waste.” He snorts. Pauses. Inhales sharply. “But then I got your blood sample.”

“Blood sample,” Louis echoes, blinking a couple of times.

“Your school nurse is a nice woman, did you know about that? Such a polite persona.”

Louis frowns, forcing his brain to grind into at least first gear in order to recall what the man is talking about. He recalls the hospital where he wound up after he passed out at school two days after the spider bite.

The doctor asking about his hand and if it hurt. Asking if he was doing drugs. Informing him that they were going to run blood and urine tests. The tests that came back clean despite the fact that they should have been anything but, given his physical state.

“From my calculations,” Norman continues after he sees the understanding crossing Louis’ face, “it looked like the OZ formula was killing you. It's why you might have had problems with health at first. Dizziness, headaches, photophobia, scotoma… All the fun stuff. Point is, all of our guinea pigs died. You were not the case, as it turned out, because what a miracle and spark of hope for us, for me—you lived."

Louis coughs to cover up the upcoming wave of tears.

“My aunt—my aunt made a banana bread,” he comments, feeling his senses kicking back in and trying to cover his wrecked nerves under a veneer of weak jokes. “Potassium’s good for blood.”

Norman ignores his interruption like it never happened.

"The deterioration we saw in your blood, the side effects that were hurting you, they must have reversed themselves. What was killing you made you more alive than you'd ever been. And made you mine. We know who's in charge now, and it's not you, kid.”

At the last word, like a wake up call, Louis’ brain goes into overdrive. Ways of escape start flashing through his head, but he stays where he's sitting, waiting for more, focusing on his buzzing senses.

"My point is, Mister Tomlinson, I’m dying, and the only example and source of perfectly working OZ is you. The crap team in my lab are still killing all of the test animals. So we’ll devise some tests. Use some needles, perhaps tables and scalpels. From this day on, you belong to me." Norman fixes a stern gaze on Louis. "You work for me, you do as I say. I presume there may be some things you have to do that you might not agree with, some decisions you might not understand. You will obey me nevertheless. If you won't—” 

"Look... Mister Merchants," Louis cuts him off, a shot of adrenaline rushing through his veins. Absolutely not scared at all, he takes a short, shallow breath, and schools his features. _Come on, Spider-Man_. "I have no interest in becoming somebody's bitch of a guinea pig, not now not ever, so it's an offer that I must refuse." A pause. Another lungful. "Can I get a permission to go now? Homework awaits. I'm sort of a nerd, gotta keep the grades high and teachers happy.”

A shadow of surprise crosses the man’s face.

“I must admit I expected more compliance out of you, Mister Tomlinson,” he remarks in wonderment.

“I live to disappoint.”

“You can't possibly be _this_ stupid to—”

“You underestimate me,” Louis’ voice drops. "Look, I am my own person." He leans forward. “Let me put this as monosyllabic as possible. I got bit by that godforsaken spider by accident. I think you’re familiar with the term ‘accident’, sir, you’re educated after all. I made it work, went along with it.” He sucks in a breath, lets out a short laugh, eyes stinging from tears. “You don't own me. If anything, you _owe_ me. A lot. I didn't want to be _this_ .” He spreads his arms, resting back against the seat. He waves a hand, making a note of the shaky-jerky thing it does and what Jay calls daintiness. “I did _not_ ask for two hours of sleep a day, an endless series of bruises, and a permanent headache. Because, see, us mundanes, we don't get what we want or deserve, we get what we get and try to move on. And 'cause of you I...” _Lost so much_ . “I should sue you. I may be a kid but I am a smart kid and I'm not stranger to the law. Your requirements are quite laughable and cringeworthy, Mister Osborn.” He straightens up, using the specks of courage in him. He didn't even know he was hunching. “I'll be going now, if you excuse me. My aunt is making tomato soup and season two of _House_ is on today. And I'm pretty sure you just scared the hell out of my friends.”

“Yes. Your aunt,” Norman echoes mindlessly. “Of course.”

Louis drags himself along the seat towards the door, inch by inch, eyes trained on the man, expecting some kind of attack.

Nothing but a couple of words are thrown almost lazily, but they sure do twist a knife between Louis’ ribs.

“Funny how numbers don’t matter when it comes to what you have to lose, isn’t it, Mister Tomlinson? Or should I say, who.”

 

 

Mechanics puzzle around his wrist.

One building, leap, another building, web, three buildings, turn, up, turn, turn, turn.

“Be safe, be safe, be safe.”

Louis pants, only half conscious of the fact that he's swinging and running with no mask and no other protection from the cold than a shirt, sweater, and a jacket that's close to falling off completely. His hood slid off his head with the first swing, he didn’t bother to put it up again. The danger of getting outed right now doesn't matter as much as the safety of his aunt, so he doesn't spare it more than a single, short worried thought that vanishes the moment he sees his building.

"Be safe, pleaseplease _please_.”

He lands on the wall by his window, giving a quick glance around to check that nobody's watching, and slides inside his room after opening the window. He climbs along the ceiling and crawls closer to his door, listening. The only sounds coming from the living room are the TV playing and soft snoring.

Louis cracks the door open and comes off the ceiling. He toes off his shoes as quietly as possible, thankful for the classic soundless and light choice of the pair from Tony. He loses the jacket and, using the walls, braces for any kind of scenario, approaches towards where Jay is most probably asleep.

With his heart hammering in his chest, nerves twisting his insides, and breath caught in his throat, he finds her perfectly fine on the couch, the TV still on and a bowl after cereal left on the coffee table. She's wrapped in a blanket, face half nuzzled into a pillow and hand clutching the remote.

Louis lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of relief as he gets down from the wall and walks the few steps towards the couch.

She's safe. There's no odd smell in the air, no sign of any other person that could've been in the room during his absence, no unusual expression on his aunt's face.

He crouches at her side to pull the remote from her loosely curled fingers and fix the blanket on her shoulder. He watches her breathe steadily for a few seconds, then plants a soft kiss on her temple, turns off the TV, and puts the remote away.

Then he goes to the bathroom where he empties his stomach, allowing the tears run down his cheek and throat.

 

 

Louis doesn’t really remember his parents per se.

He’s seen their faces thousands times on pictures and videos, but even with his mind, an almost three-year-old Louis wasn’t capable of memorising all details of the faces that should matter the most.

He doesn’t remember a voice singing a song his Aunt so often says that he preferred the most to fall asleep to. He doesn’t remember the arms that held him when he took his first steps. He doesn’t remember the warmth he’d be wrapped in at nights.

He misses them nevertheless.

He missed them when he got his first science award, and on the day some important guy said he's years ahead of his classmates. He had his first kiss, and he wanted nothing else but to both never tell anyone and tell it to nobody but his parents—even though it was Jay and Dan than he lived with at the time. It's always been some kind of natural instinct. He got his tenth award, then fiftieth, then hundredth, and he'd miss his parents more than ever. He'll graduate in a second and he'll miss them, too.

He knows his dad was a scientist. He thought that if his dad was alive, they'd figure something out. That they'd fix him after what had happened at Oscorp. That idea died within two days.

He talked about them with Dan and Jay a couple of times, but those were happy times. He understood that his parents wouldn’t want him to wallow in tears. When he’d be laughed at in school and called an orphan, when there were pointed fingers and aggressive shoulders in the halls, he still wouldn’t cry about it. He would get sad at times, and walk to the graveyard on his own just to stand still for an hour or two with them, and then he’d move on. 

Still, he misses them. In moments like this, the most. For the first time in his life, he's downright petrified.

The worst part? There’s no outlet for this. There’s nobody he can unload his fear on. His parents are gone, so is Dan, Jay doesn’t know, and Tony is most probably too busy for someone as irrelevant in his life as him.

He would appreciate someone to talk to and hug the hell out of. He’s never relied on anybody, always doing his best to learn things independently and not bothering anyone with his trivial issues. 

Added to his yearning for his parents is the fact that, he hasn't made his peace with the guilt and sorrow attached to Dan, and it hits him now.

It’s really not the time for this. He can lose his shit later.

There has to be a way out. There is _always_ more than one solution. There’s suicide, yeah, but he also doesn’t want to die yet, so that kinda narrows it back down to the one option that he can see and it’s one that he’s definitely not up to.

Two hundred and fifty IQ points. They’d be sort of useful right now.

As he swings past building after building, his breath begins to even out, tempo only changed only by stronger pulls on webs or jumps from high roofs.

He reaches the apex of a swing, lets go of the web, shoots another one, and begins his descent. Agile in the freefall, fighting the laws of physics, with the world moving around him in the familiar, steady rhythm from all sides—in those couple of seconds he doesn’t have to think about the game that has suddenly become serious. It’s not all vanilla patrols and joyful shouts from rooftops anymore.

His phone buzzes. Niall. Decline. Harry—mark as read.

He changes into skinny jeans and a red hoodie in a narrow alley close to Stark Tower, slides his backpack onto his shoulder, walks up to the main door, and approaches the desk in the lobby. The woman sitting behind it sends him a smile, asks for a name and voice recognition, before giving him directions to the lab.

A few minutes later he’s stepping into the workshop, breathing in the smell of machinery and coffee. As he approaches the coffee machine the room begins to brighten automatically.

"FRIDAY, you there?" He throws out the question a bit shyly, not sure yet how to approach the AI on his own.

" _Good afternoon, Louis_ ," the polite voice echoes in the room.

"Hi yourself."

He starts examining the contents of the cupboards, and then gasps at the volume of cookies, chips, juices, and what appear to be smoothies in the refrigerator. He has to send another ten text messages with 'thank you's to Tony.

“ _How was school today?_ ”

Louis swallows, his hand hovering over a clean cup in the cupboard.

" _You appear to be in distress. Has something happened?_ "

"Just a test, no biggie. Nailed it."

" _If you say so._ "

"Hey, is there any chance you can turn your volume down a little? I have this enhanced hearing thing, and it’s a bit more sensitive today, so if you could, like, take it down by half, that'd be great." He digs out a pack of unfamiliar frosty lemon cookies and milk.

" _Of course,_ " comes the answer, already several decibels lower. " _Is there anything else that might trigger your heightened senses that I can adjust for you?"_

Louis gives it a thought, but shakes his head when he can't come up with anything in particular. "I'll let you know as we go, alright?”

" _As you wish_."

While the coffee machine pours his drink into a cup, Louis walks up to the two armchairs where he throws his backpack and discards his phone on the coffee table. Before he can step away the phone buzzes.

 

hazza, 3:33 PM

you alright???? that dude was scary af. 0/10 woulndt recommend

 

Louis responds with a quick lie.

 

3:34 PM

yes. it was nothing. just offered me an internship. i’m staying at stark’s tho.

 

hazza, 3:34 PM

jeez, lend me your looks, i want sugar daddies to hmu too.

 

He snorts.

 

3:35 PM

you’re a tragedy. i’m at the workshop. see u tomorrow

 

hazza, 3:35 PM

take care, sweetcheeks

 

Kicking off his shoes and running a hand through his already disheveled hair he goes to grab his coffee, ignoring the cookies he grabbed earlier. His stomach feels far too unsettled for that kind of treatment.

It’s only when he gets a grip on his cup that he realizes his hands are shaking. 

He takes in a deep lungful of air. Breathe out. Focus.

He clears his throat. 

“I’d like some info on Norman Osborn. Is there any way for me to gather that?” he asks striving for a casual tone. He takes a sip of his coffee, looking around for holoscreens and realising that there are none to be seen. He frowns, only now realising that the workshop has gone to sleep  in his absence.

 _“Initialising database: Norman Osborn_.”

He expects a few screens to pop up, but what actually happens almost makes him choke on his drink. A simple white line on the floor creating a circle that Louis had hardly noticed suddenly lights up with a multitude of holoscreens in a range of sizes. The screens are filled with text, numbers, photos and muted videos and form a cylindrical space marked by the cyan glow of the holograms. The overall effect is breathtaking and overwhelming all at once and Louis is once again struck by how this is more than he ever thought possible.   

“Holy...” He lets himself breathe out, walking into the space and for a second he forgets why he's even there. “This is amazing. Where did you get it from?”

“ _FBI, CIA, S.H.I.E.L.D., hospitals, police records. Any database available_.”

His attitude quickly shifts from amazement to solemn as soon as he sees the pictures of Norman Osborn. He eyes the video clips from interviews and public speeches, feeling a shiver go down his spine at the still fresh memory of his encounter with the man.

" _Is there anything in particular you’re interested in_?" FRIDAY asks.

Louis considers the question, wondering what could be useful in his case.

"The basics. Family, job, Oscorp."

A few of the holoscreens disappear, the remainder organising the data into a single large cylindrical hologram.

" _Norman Virgil Osborn, born in September of nineteen seventy seven, is a current owner and CEO of Oscorp Industries_ ," says FRIDAY as some of the information zooms in and out. " _Norman studied chemistry and electrical engineering at Empire State University. Afterwards, he took several courses in business administration. In nineteen ninety nine, with professor Mendel Stromm, he formed a business partnership and the company known then as Osborn Chemical."_ A picture of a twenty-something-year-old man shows up with basic data attached by its side. Louis thinks he had to be a nice man, given the smile dancing on his lips and the sparkle of curiosity mixed with joy in his eyes. _"Mendell Stromm was arrested soon after the making of the company, granting Norman complete control over it. Married to Emily Lyman, father of a seventeen-year-old daughter, name unknown. The women don't live in New York, location unknown._ "

Louis frowns nonplussed.

"Why?" 

" _Mister Osborn has never shared any information about his family,_ " FRIDAY explains. " _Almost all the data about his wife disappeared once he married her, and no data about his daughter can be found in any available service. The public has never seen her face._ "

Come to think of it, Louis realises that he indeed has never heard about Norman Osborn's private life. He decides to keep that in mind and waves a hand.

"What about his health?"

" _Why the sudden interest in such a topic?_ "

"I heard he has cancer, and I'm writing a paper about famous sick people," Louis lies smoothly. Or at least he hopes so.

As he downs his coffee, the AI flicks through photographs, clips, and private documents.

And then there it is. Norman Osborn’s death sentence. Or Louis’.

Louis lets out a quivering breath. His hand is clenched on the cup, so he loosens it, not wanting the drink to spill on the floor. He rubs his eyes with the back of his still shaking wrist.

He starts reading the VHL data. _House_ marathons pay off as he goes through the symptoms and description and understands most of it. Especially the last part.

“Is it really incurable?”

“ _Both VHL and sarcoma are treatable if diagnosed soon enough. In the current state, the death is inevitable. I’m sorry._ ”

Quiet falls in the laboratory as Louis reads the patient data over and over, as if he could understand and cure the illnesses by only looking at the descriptions.

It takes a few minutes for him to digest that he’s got a hand on his throat. There’s no known cure for what Norman has. Nothing but Louis’ healing factor.

How does Norman even know it could work? It’s not like he can regenerate. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to regrow a limb or his organs. He hasn’t tried yet, to be honest. And he’s not going to.

“ _May I know what's the real reason for this investigation?_ " FRIDAY asks.

“Will Mister Stark know about this?" Louis offers a question instead of an answer.

" _Mister Stark required I report everything that I consider dangerous or detrimental towards you, meaning if what you're getting yourself into pertains to that criteria I am obligated to inform the boss about it."_

“Then the answer is no.”

Louis walks away to put the cup into the dishwasher. He speaks up again once he's turned with his back rested against the wall by the kitchenette.

“Say, Fri, do we have something I can use for research on my blood samples? I could use a body scan as well.”

 

 

He feels like sleeping for a week. And then, when he's tired of sleeping, he could use some rest. Then maybe a nap for a few years.

A cup of coffee and some more digging through the Oscorp database later, Louis finds himself in front of the four screens on the desk, one of them playing the footage from the day he was bitten, while FRIDAY does analysis on his blood sample and cross referencing it with anything she can find out about the mutated spider displayed on the full height holoscreen behind him. 

“Unmute.”

He sees a man he hadn’t bothered to even look at before, the one whose voice was had been sounding throughout the lab and had been trying to entertain a group of students.

" _Over three painstaking years, the Oscorp's genetic research facility has begun what was once thought impossible. Using a retrovirus and its ability to infect we have managed to take genes containing desired traits from modified arachnid genes, and encode them into an entirely new genome combining the genetic information from all four spiders into one, genetically mutated species of a super-spider._ ”

“Okay, pause.”

Louis looks closely at his past, skinnier self in glasses face screwed up in pain caused by the bite.

Okay, but those glasses. No wonder he got bullied.

_Focus._

Norman is right. There must have been a crapload of people crossing through the lab that day, but he happened to be the one that was bitten by a mutated spider. If that's not a life's best joke, then Louis doesn't know what is.

It could have happened to anyone. Anyone could have walked in there, anyone could have been bitten, gotten superpowers, and then done whatever they pleased with them. Would they become heroes? Would they keep that to themselves? Would they have freaked out or maybe even hurt themselves?

He doesn't want to watch how he made a mess of himself in the lab, so he closes the clip and starts looking for information about that particular lab and the experiments that were taking place that day. After he’s isolated that information, it's easy to find the necessary data about the damned arachnid. Louis stretches the information across the monitors, stumbling a little as he tries to acclimatize to the high tech after FRIDAY told him about the in-ear that helps with steering everything in the workshop.

“ _May I interrupt_?” The AI speaks up with some hesitation.

“Hm?” He turns on his stool, leaving the hand holding his coffee on the desk. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course.”

“ _I have managed to complete a full analysis of the mutation, alongside the one on the genetically modified arachnid species._ ”

“This is great, thank you.” Louis gets up from the stool. “What do we got here?”

He begins to watch the slides and data on the holoscreen.

“ _The mutation was possible due to the engineered retrovirus. All of the mutations contained in the genotype of the spider’s DNA hit different cells throughout your body_ ," FRIDAY explains.

"Alright, but why wasn't I infected with venom as well?” Louis cuts in. “Isn't that sort of impossible for a spider to inject only the virus? Venom isn't exactly human-friendly. If substantial envenomation happened and managed to transfer the virus into my bloodstream, I should have been quote unquote _injected_ with venom as well."

“ _The odds of a retrovirus surviving and effectively modifying the host organism’s DNA by coalescing with the genetic codes are indeed minuscule, close to zero. Very close to zero. You might consider yourself very lucky. Had the path the mutation took through your cells gone even by a hundredth of a percent point right or left, you wouldn't be standing here._ "

Louis’ eyes widen. “As in?”

" _Anything could have happened._ " A couple of the infinite possible mutations cross the screen. " _You might have not been able to recognize yourself in a mirror, or worse—you might have not recognized yourself per se. Schizophrenia, deformation, personality disorders. Even death. You're really lucky, Mister Tomlinson. To answer your previous question, both the mutated DNA and venom got into the bloodstream, but the mutation fought them off. The mutated DNA dominated the structural compounds and the subsequent results to your system. The internal battle between the retrovirus and venom are likely the cause of your initial minor health problems.”_

“If you can call feeling like my guts were eating themselves and throwing up repeatedly, then yes, they were minor. Happy days.”

 _“It’s because your organism, since palpably bigger than the arachnid's one, was rapidly reproducing the mutated traits so that they could be analogous to the spider's_ ,” FRIDAY explains, pulling forward a slide filled with equations.

“So there was a chance I could end up shooting webs from where the sun don't shine?”

“ _If you could shoot organic web from your own spinnerets, it would be as thin as dental floss and probably stronger than the strongest cables from the largest suspension bridges or Iron Man’s suit."_

FRIDAY quickly draws calculations based on the enhancement his body got from the spider to show the durability and tensile strength of the theoretical web.

"Well, would’ve saved a lot of money and time I spent on dumpster diving if I could do that," Louis mutters, reading the numbers, as one of his hands subconsciously moves to massage his wrist. On the other hand, it would probably feel very odd if not downright uncomfortable to shoot silk out of his body. He shivers at the thought itself. "But hey, these are actually similar to what I built," he points out, seeing the formulas for the webbing.

" _They are_ ." FRIDAY pulls his synthetic web formula placing it alongside the theoretical one. " _The only difference is that you didn't consider the mutation of the super-spider, instead you tried to compose your own. The fact that you used the organic web’s formulas as a base definitely plays a great role when it comes to stickiness, tensility, and strength."_

"So if I consider the mutated DNA and this data of the super-spider, my webs can be even better?" 

" _Absolutely_."

Most of Louis’ experiments until he met Tony were carried out in high school labs, or in his own bedroom. Everything was a case of making do with what he had and what he could find in big corporations’ dumpsters. It’s gonna be interesting and exciting to learn what he could do in a properly equipped lab.

“Alright.” He licks his lips. “What about the healing factor?”

Another couple of calculations flicker on the holoscreen as his heart skips a beat or two.

_“According to the data, your healing process runs about thirty times faster than a normal human being’s. Bruises can be healed in a couple of hours, a broken arm in maybe even a day. Possible to heal third-degree burns. It also makes you immune to most known toxins.”_

He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Could the cells heal, let’s say, cancer?”

_“They can fight it. There’s no certainty in healing it.”_

“Okay.”

Okay. So why would Osborn want his blood? Does he know more? He has to, he created the OZ. Whatever it is that he knows and whatever he’s after, it’s in Louis’ body, and he either finds a way to extract it himself or he’ll end up on a cold table with needles in his everywhere.

 _"Mister Stark wanted me to remind you not to stay up all night_ ," FRIDAY warns him in the nicest voice possible. “ _You have school, Louis._ "

"Who said I'm gonna go to sleep anyway, FRIDAY? You can’t control me twenty four seven," he mutters, moving the data mindlessly.

" _I'm obliged to inform you that this is irresponsible._ "

"Australian redbacks can go six months without food.” He shrugs. “I'll manage a night with no sleep. Besides, sleep deprivation is an old friend of mine. We're practically married. Can I get a visual of the mutations?”

FRIDAY doesn't answer the retort, but Louis would swear she rolled her invisible eyes at him.

Two seconds later, yawning, Louis stares at the holographic model of his body, at the bloodstream, organs, and numbers around the lines.

The holo projection is him, except for the part where all his internal organs are perfectly visible like on those three dimensional models in a biology classroom. There are a few screens with detailed information about certain body parts hovering around the hologram, such as current heart rate, blood type, and body temperature. The latter is a bit higher than for an average human being, but given that he feels absolutely fine, he figures that it’s just one of the things that the spider bite changed in him.

“Highlight red all the mutated parts.” Some of the cyan parts start to glow in angry red—the tissues around the internal organs, veins, skin, brain, and after a couple of seconds the redness takes over three quarters of the model. “That’s... Well, that’s a lot.” Louis gets up from the stool to approach the hologram. “Christ. Am I still classified as homo sapiens at this point?”

“ _It appears that your bloodstream has changed the most significantly. As you certainly know, in mammals, hemoglobin molecules present in the red blood cells transport oxygen._ ” FRIDAY pulls a hologram with vitals typical for spiders somewhere above the data with his blood pressure. “ _Meanwhile spiders use hemocyanin which flows more freely in the blood of a spider. The open blood circulatory system found in spiders allow blood vessels to transport the blood to a specific place but thereafter the blood flows freely in the open cavity between the organs. The bite fundamentally changed your body structure due to quite drastic changes to your DNA and cells. During the process of mutation within your organism, your cells produced and created quite a large number of new vessels which can transport hemocyanin to your organs, including your heart and brain._ "

Louis taps the pen he’s holding on his knee, squinting. "That would explain the reduced effect that the g-force has on me, huh? Also the upside-downsies.”

" _Affirmative_ ,” FRIDAY agrees. “ _Usually, circulatory systems permit blood to circulate and transport nutrients, oxygen, carbon dioxide, hormones, and blood cells. Yours transports all of this plus hemocyanin. Additionally, your connective tissue has more collagen, and therefore withstand larger impact and provides protection from g-forces when it comes to your organs and blood. It's also the reason why you can hang upside down for prolonged periods_ .” A screen with a microscope image of blood cells shows up in front of the hologram, right along with highlighting the circulatory system in white. " _Aside from the hemocyanin in your natural bloodstream, you gained an extra circulatory system that, like in spiders, allows the proteins to rapidly move towards the parts of your anatomy that need it."_

“And there I was thinking that four-legged snakes were freaks of nature.”

Before he can enlarge the view on his connective tissue, Louis’ phone goes off. He walks up to the table and picks it up automatically, without looking at the caller ID.

“Hullo?”

“Busy, Tomlinson?”

Louis frowns at the sound of a familiar voice. “Who am I talking to?”

“It’s your social life. Long time no talk.”

“Zayn.” This day can literally not get any weirder.

“Ding-ding. I was informed by your boy that you’re in the same tower I’m in. Mind telling the lady behind the desk I'm a friend of yours and not a terrorist hiding a bomb in my pocket? We can have a makeout session in exchange for the favor, I’ll even let you steer this time. PS, I won’t take a no for an answer, I didn’t walk all the fucking way down here for you to be somewhere else.”

Louis blinks, digesting the verbal onslaught.

"Sure, hand the phone over," he says finally.

Voice recognition and an exaggerated sigh from the lobby woman later, Louis' onto quickly closing down everything Spider-Man related. 

“FRIDAY, keep me updated on Osborn,” he instructs. “Any important news and such. Don't ask why. Start two files, one for an algorithm, another for a police scanner. I'll monitor radio signals in the local area. I’d like you to find police scanners’ blueprints, I'll write the plans later. As for the algorithm, I'll get to it later.”

“ _On it._ ”

He gets to his backpack and grabs a couple of books which he scatters onto the semicircular desk to make it look like he’s been studying.

"This looks like a machine shop had sex with a high-tech showroom."

Louis looks up from one of the four one-way transparent screens towards an approaching Zayn. 

"That's one way to put it."

Zayn gives him a little smile as he walks between the floating, mostly empty holoscreens, gawking at some of them. He stops and holds up a hand. His fingers pass through the hologram that is displaying footage from the camera at the front of the tower.

"How do you work with these? You can't touch it."

Louis gets up from his stool, closing the blood results tabs on his screen, and walks up to the boy. 

He reaches out and runs a finger across the surface of the screen, miniaturising the image and pulling up a secondary imager from a side icon—footage from another camera. The screen may feel like nothing but thin air under his fingers, but it is touch sensitive.

“Majority of holograms are created with use of a laser that fires ultra-short bursts of light, the length of femtoseconds, or a quadrillionth of a second that's concentrated on a region of air molecules. It gives them enough energy that they ionize by releasing an electron and emit light. It's a concentrated mixture of positive and negative particles. Get human skin come into contact with the plasma, it senses the hologram from the vibrations of the energetic air molecules.”

Zayn raises a brow at him.

Louis rolls his eyes. Taps the hologram again.

“You work on the surface. Focus a little and think.”

Zayn grimaces. “Sounds exhausting.”

Louis lets out a breathy chuckle.

He eyes Zayn's worn out demeanor, the haphazard clothing, hood pulled over his head, bangs poking out from under the thick material, and cheeks flushed red from the remains of winter cold outside. He doesn’t look tragic, but he definitely could use some rest.

Takes one to know one. Except Louis looks downright tragic.

"What's up?” he asks conversationally, aiming for a non-I’m-gonna-die-soon tone. “How’d you get my number?”

The corners of Zayn’s mouth quirk up. “I'll have you know that your pal is handing out your phone number like it's a Hawaiian Beach Party flyer. I don’t wanna jump to conclusions here, but I think he's trying to make friends for you.”

“We’ve had this tango for a while now, he doesn’t give up,” Louis agrees vaguely, rolling his eyes and rubbing his shoulder. “You seriously walked all the way here?”

Zayn looks at him like he’s a lunatic. 

“Of course the hell not, I took the subway. I wouldn’t walk all this way even if you were my father. Especially if you were my father.”

Louis beckons him with a flick of his wrist to follow him up to the kitchenette.

“I’m gonna presume here your dad's not one to get a yearly Christmas card from you, huh?” he risks a personal question.

Zayn snorts, dropping his backpack by one of the armchairs. “I don't even know his birthday. Like I care.”

When they reach their destination, Louis looks for some hint of the sorrow or sadness that usually colors Liam's face when he talks about his parents, but Zayn looks perfectly fine and unmoved. Whatever it is that’s happening at the Malik household, he is not going to get emotional about it. Given that Zayn definitely isn't one to hide his sexuality with his ride-or-die attitude, the rainbow bracelets on his wrist and one hanging on his backpack—

“They're shit, if you're wondering,” Zayn breaks through his train of thought, leaning against the cupboard by the coffee machine. “And no, it has nothing to do with me liking dick.”

“At least you have them.”

“Bad thinking.” He shakes his head. “Thanks but no thanks. I’d rather not have them. Dad's been drunk for what seems like decades, I don't recall him sober like, ever, and my mom gives in. Sad, but nothing I can change.” He shrugs. “I tried to help more than once, but gave that up. You won’t find me first in line to give someone an unlimited quantity of second chances, I'm not the hero type.”

Louis stares at him for a few seconds, digesting the information, and trying to see if Zayn's bravado is simply a facade or if he really is this cavalier about his home life. Nothing about his demeanor screams lies, so Louis supposes that's just the way it is— simple. 

He reaches to the cupboard above the sink for cups.

“You don't have to be the hero type to help. Or give a second chance,” he says finally.

“That's exactly what it means to be the hero type.” Zayn watches him approach the coffee machine and turn it on. “You know, putting your ass in danger, fighting until your lungs give out, sacrificing yourself for an old lady crossing the street. That's not me. I’m nice, but there’s a line. You're more of that kinda guy.”

“Me?” Louis frowns, looking up at the boy.

His sense doesn’t go off, but he keeps his guard up, in case Zayn was onto something particular. Something he shouldn’t know.

“Please.” Zayn rolls his eyes as a small shit-eating grin appears on his lips. “As if Niall hasn't told me the tales about you carrying the elders’ shopping bags. Or that time when you gave your last pen to the girl who didn't have one at biology exam so you had to take it orally after class. Or that time when you found a kitten and marched four miles to the—”

“I get it, thanks.”

“ _Or_ those times when you'd stay at school to help the juniors with homework. Or when you took over for your physics teacher because she had a headache. I bet you're the type to save someone's life and refuse to take something in return, even a hot dog.”

“That's some intel you’ve got on me,” Louis observes, putting the two cups on the coffee machine. He hovers his finger of the ‘latte’ button on the touch screen and glances expectantly at Zayn. The boy nods, so latte it is.

Zayn draws up an open hand, shrugging. "Niall's one talkative guy, not my fault."

"Oh, tell me about it." Louis turns his gaze to the cups and hands Zayn a filled one, then puts the other one in its place, tapping the latte option again.

He sighs when he notices his still trembling hand. _Come on, get it together_.

"You seem stressed. Like a proper anxiety wave just swallowed you whole. Something happen?"

Louis gives him a look. “I didn’t say anything about the way you devoured Liam with your eyes a week ago, so kindly stay out of my personal life, will you?”

Zayn raises his hand in surrender. “Alright, don't bitch around. I didn't mean to push the wrong button.”

"I'm sorry, I'm just..." _Going to die soon_. "It's nothing. I suggest we change the topic.” Louis reaches for his coffee and turns a little so he can lean against the counter next to Zayn. It doesn't escape his attention that the twists and fluttering in his stomach don't make an appearance when he's by a guy he once made out with, contrary to an analogous situation with some other guy he once (twice) made out with.

“Agreed. I couldn’t help but notice the pile of cookies behind your back. Mind if I munch some?”

Louis waves a hand. “Knock yourself out.”

Visibly content with the answer, Zayn reaches for one pack of peanut cookies. He tears the package open and offers it to Louis, already having snatched one cookie and stuffed in his mouth. Louis shakes his head since he’d sooner throw up than swallow any food today, and takes a sip of his beverage.

After some time filled with silence broken by sips and crunches, Zayn nudges Louis’ side and swallows.

“So I’ve heard that you work with Spider-Man.”  

Louis doesn’t even bother with getting angry or even looking aside, his gaze stuck on the holoscreen showing weather forecasts.

“Do I even have to say the name?”

“Really, man, he spills everything like an old lady in a clinic waiting room.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“He misses you, you know?”

Louis scrunches his nose and takes a few sips of his coffee. “What do you mean? We talk, like, on daily.”

“Yeah, but what about after school hangouts? What about weekends? He says you aren't around the skatepark as much as you used to be, your camera doesn't hang on your neck half the time anymore. You’re not gonna do anything about this?”

“First of all, I missed the part where it's your business. Secondly, you all know I’m busy. I have school, the internship, and now the lab to fool around in.” He shrugs. “Like, I get that we’re friends, but he’s not stuck with me, and nor am I with him. I haven't signed a contract that'd require me hanging on his arm twenty-four-seven.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to cut him off or something.”

“I haven’t cut him off. We talk every day, I told you."

Zayn lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, my old man is an ass but he once drunkenly said one thing, a smart thing, maybe repeated after someone. There are two things that you ignore, the ones that don't matter or you want to not matter, wish for it. I have a feeling you're the case number two. You seem so distant, alright? I've only met you three times in my life and I can see it. You want to think that the alienation doesn't matter but it does, Tomlinson.”

Louis sucks in his lower lip and chews on it. 

Between swinging around New York, trying to doctor his own injuries, attempts—or attempts of attempts—to sleep, and not screwing up at school, he’s become quite reclusive. The fact that he can’t disclose why he’s keeping to himself means he’s coming across like a depressed asshole. Or just an asshole. 

“We’re not attached at the hip, Zayn.” He  takes another sip of his drink, fixing his gaze on it. “Can you drop this? I’m really not in the mood.”

“There any topic that suits you today?” Zayn’s tone indicates that he has more to say on the topic but allows it to pass for now. “Just keep it in mind that there’s life outside this workshop and your room.”

“That was inspirational, thank you, I'll put it on the fridge.”

Louis puts his cup away and walks away from Zayn, only half hoping that he’ll follow. He approaches one of the holograms hanging in the middle of the lab and opens the file he asked FRIDAY to create. He begins flicking through blueprints of a standard police scanner and opens a clean one to make a custom one.

“Not to break the nerd trance but I ask you something?” Zayn asks from where he’s still standing.

Louis waves a hand, the other starting to draw calculations. “Free country.”

“What are your intentions with Harry?”

He shifts uncomfortably and turns to give the boy a confused look. “What do you mean what are my intentions? He’s my friend. Or so he writes in his secret diary.”

“Niall told me something else.”

“ _Niall_ can shove the something else up his ass as far as I’m concerned.”

“So no crush? No wet dreams? No secret makeouts?” Zayn places his cup by the abandoned cookies and approaches Louis. “Because from where I stand, he’s definitely got the hots for you.”

“We’ve decided to remain friends,” Louis informs him dryly. He looks towards where Zayn’s trying to decipher the numbers on the holoscreen.

“‘Decided to remain friends’ isn’t the same thing as ‘we’re totally not into each other’. I thought you were smarter than that. Word is you're the most intelligent kid in the US.”

“How’s this your concern, anyway?” He switches his gaze back to the screen and focuses on the data.

He studies another calculations on the scanner blueprints and modifies them in his head. He’s going to need his receiver to fit into an earpiece as well as being untraceable, so there’s a few lines to be added into the algorithm. He needs every update in order to be there in case someone—

“Because he’s my friend? And I don’t want him hurt? I think it's obvious I wouldn't like any harm done to Harry.”

“I didn’t know he had a bodyguard.”

“For fuck's sake, look at me.”

Louis does, closing the project.

Zayn’s standing uncomfortably close. He doesn’t look mad, just a bit disappointed and concerned. He knocks on Louis’ head. 

“Knock-knock, you in there?”

Louis bats his hand away. “Shove off, what do you want from me?”

“To tell me you won’t hurt him.”

“I can’t promise that,” he admits, putting his hands into the pockets of his trackies. How does one stand when they try to pretend a rich dude didn't just threaten him?

“What do you mean you can’t promise?” Zayn frowns.

“It means that I can’t tell you with all certainty that I won’t happen to harm Harry physically or mentally in any way. Partly because it’s impossible to predict the future, and partly because I make no promises, they have a tendency to go sideways.”

As far as his ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ M.O. goes, he’s not fond of declarations. Promises are almost always broken, in one way or another. Uncle Dan promised to be there for him forever, and that didn’t end well. His parents promised to be back soon from their trip, and they never made it home. Jay promised to be strong for them both when the worst happened, but she wound up crying for three days straight after the funeral.

Promises are just a real life plot device used by people with the urge to appear reliable.

Zayn scans his face for a few seconds, unmoved.

“Then at least tell me you won’t do anything that would hurt him purposefully.”

“That can be arranged. I’m not planning on it. I like him too much. I don't wanna hurt anyone.”

“Good.”

“Splendid."

“So you’re not crushing on him.” Zayn squints.

“Nopes."

“Can I kiss you then?”

Louis almost chokes on his own spit. Apparently this day _can_ get weirder. “What point are you trying to make?”

“Just running a test here. Can I kiss you or you chicken?”

He's supposed to say no, probably, but at the moment, he can't exactly remember why.

Louis leans into his space and connects their mouths in a quick kiss. That doesn’t do it for Zayn as he brings his hand up and pulls Louis close again by the front of his hoodie. It’s almost like the last time they kissed, rushed and with juvenile eagerness. Louis closes his eyes, trying to allow himself enjoy it—the warmth, the lips moving against his own, their tongues flickering against each other.

But it’s not the warmth he wants, not the lips he needs, and not the contact he’s fond of. He pulls away, to quickly to be able to play it off as reluctant.

Zayn presses his lips together, nodding, smugness tugging on the corners of his mouth. 

“Thought so. Now play some fucking game on those floating things because I can't understand shit from your screen. You got Pacman here? Or at least _Twilight_? I feel like de-braining.”

 

**February the 21st, Thursday**

 

Letting Harry into his life hasn’t been going as badly as Louis thought it would.

It's actually worse.

Harry's has shown no signs of staying out of Louis' personal space and Louis doesn't have the heart to push him off his lap when they're watching another less or more random movie. As the days pass at ever increasing speed, they have continued to grow closer despite vows to not make it a relationship. Louis wishes he could say he at least tries to stay away from too much physical contact and blatant staring, he really does.

That’s where the 'worse' part comes into play.

He was not supposed to end up sprawled out on the couch in his living room, Harry between his legs with a pillow over Louis' crotch where  he nuzzled after five minutes of complaints about how Louis hides his glorious body underneath those 'potato sack sweaters’, and Niall snoring on the armchair. He was not supposed to end up watching _The Great Gatsby_ this evening, propped on a pillow in a freshly-sewn powder pink pillowcase from Harry.

He was supposed to... Well, anything but that. Complete opposite of closure and wasting time. He should be doing the _complete opposite_ of doing nothing, of being useless. His body craves the streets, craves the suit, the rush in his veins as he takes another swing between high-rises.

"Army," Harry says in response to a question that Jay asked which  somehow Louis missed.

He pulls himself up, slowly and delicately, probably in an attempt not to wake up Louis, and leans onto the backrest with his upper body.

Louis must have zoned out because for some reason the movie is now on pause. Wait, it's not on pause. The news is on, only they have it on the lowest volume. That’s when he realizes his eyes are closed and he indeed must have dozed off. Thinking about how to survive wears a guy out, apparently.

"Figures."

"Hm?" Harry’s frown is audible in his voice. The steady _thump-thump_ of his heart is strong and reassuring in a way. There’s a faint hint of strain, carefully hidden and controlled, but Louis doesn’t give it a second thought. 

"Guessed it by the way you called me ma'am first time we met. And every time since." Jay chuckles. From the familiar sounds coming from the kitchen it appears that she's preparing food for her night shift. “Dan’s old friend was army and would always call me that. I kind of figured that it’s a thing. Your dad not living with you guys anymore?"

“He’s long gone. Died when I was eight.”

Jay stiffens. “I’m so sorry.”

“About what?” The venom lacing Harry’s words is barely there—but _still_ there—and it makes Louis’ guts twist and heart sting.

When Jay replies her voice sounds a bit more strangled than ten seconds ago. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothin',” comes a reply that's far from 'nothing’ but too well masked to be deciphered by someone who doesn't have the access to the rhythm of Harry's heart. “It’s alright. I’m fine. It’s been years, I’m good. How did—How’d Dan go, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jay chooses to turn a blind eye to the blatant topic change as she lets out a melancholic sigh.

“He was shot by a thief. The police said that he tried to stand in the guy's way, talk him out of running away with a bag of cash. The thief wasn’t up to hear some good advice, as it turned out.”

“That must have been tough for you.”

“It was quite a tragedy, there's no denying that.” Jay approaches the couch, fingers drumming on the lunch box in her hands. “I think Louis got the worst of it all. His parents died in a plane crash when he was three, his grandparents from his mother's side are long gone, Dan never kept in touch with his own parents, and neither did I. If I'm being honest, I don't even know if they're alive. And Louis, he had nobody left but me and Dan. And now it's only the two of us. He's… He’s just a kid.”

Harry doesn't seem to have an answer to that other than a hand wandering down the back of the couch to finally rest on Louis’ ankle and a thumb drawing circles on the base of his Achilles tendon.

“He's been strong nevertheless, I'd say,” he says, a reassuring smile coloring his voice. “To achieve so much despite all of the winds blowing him off his feet, in his face, that's impressive.”

“He's a good boy. Stronger than he gives himself credit for,” Jay agrees. She shuffles across the living room to her bag hanging in the hall to tuck away the box. “But after Dan… After Dan's death, he's been so off. Absent minded. Like he's been keeping his mind busy with everything possible in order to not think about the reality waiting on the other side of his hopes for a different, better, and fuller life. And the fact that in all his obvious exhaustion he's managed to somehow get even smarter and better, and stronger… He's a good kid. I never thought I'd have kids but now that I've had Louis, it's… It’s the best thing in the world.”

Jay shuffles a bit more and then pauses. “When he was a child, three or four, he'd go out with us and tell random people 'have a good day’. That's what kind of a person he was. Is. He's grown out of it, I guess. Of freedom, of the free-spirited sort of a thing. Of random ideas and the strangest pranks. He's gotten overwhelmed with school, with… with trying to be better. Not really trying, it's all came naturally, he's just always been brighter. S’why Dan and I, we wanted him to go to school with kids his age. To not miss out on casual kind of youth. We'd allow him every extracurricular he wanted, drive him to the library, then buy him sunway tickets, and that switched to us just giving him money for tickets. Later on he'd just walk the miles. He had school and a mountain of extras going on around it. I don't think he realizes how smart he is. How good and kind.”

Harry’s smile is practically audible. Louis counts five breaths before the boy sighs, his head shifting, and heart skipping a bit.

“He seems like that person that once lighted up the room. Made everyone laugh. Still does for me, he's oddly incredible, and funny in his snarkiness, but, uh…” He clears his throat, clearly looking for proper words. “Has he always been like... this?"

“Like what, exactly?”

He goes quiet, considering the answer.

“Tired?”

 _I'm not tired_ , Louis wants to interject, about ready to finish pretending he’s asleep when his focus shifts on the TV.

“ _...after the explosion, leaving the three highest floors of Oscorp Tower completely damaged. It is thought that there is no chance for anyone who was present at the time of the explosion to have survived. It is known that Mister Osborn and from nine to eleven scientists were on the lower two floors, as the third one has remained unused since an overhaul of the three laboratories there. No bodies have been been recovered at this time. The police and firefighters are on the case…_ ”

 

**February the 22nd, Friday**

 

The funeral of Norman Osborn happens quickly. It’s a formal and intimate affair. There was no body to bury, the remains identified through dental records. A deceptively simple tombstone serving as a memorial.

Louis finds himself on the rooftop closest to the church, crying from relief and shaking from anxiety easing out of him in waves as the funeral takes place.

He’s going to be alright. 

That’s what he tells himself as he empties his stomach in an alley two blocks away from the church.

 

hazza, 7:08 PM

top gun at mine?

 

7:09 PM

make it top gun and popcorn and i’m in. 8.

 

7:11 PM

i need a cuddle.

 

**February the 25th, Monday**

 

“Mister Tomlinson?” A voice jerks Louis out of his nap suddenly, making him jump up in his seat.

Sitting next to him Niall keeps a soothing grip on his forearm, to prevent  Louis from any further movement. Louis' broken enough desks to not want to risk another, so he’s definitely grateful for Niall’s calming touch. 

Over twenty eyes with varying levels of resentment are on Louis now. Most of them are jealous that despite the naps in class and seeming to not pay much attention, Louis’ still the best student that’s ever attended this school.

Of course, it has nothing to do with his studying during breaks on patrols, quick reading during breaks, breakfasts, dinners, and lunches, his childhood spent buried deep in books and libraries, or that papers of the greatest minds like Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, and Reed Richards have been in his drawer in his desk, being worked on and deciphered for months. 

Not at all. Just like GaGa, he was born—

“—boring you?” Mister Larson arches an eyebrow in irritation.

There was a time when the teachers would turn a blind eye to his naps, given that he was one of their best students, but even their patience has limits, especially as they approach the final months of the school year.

Louis blinks. He can’t exactly explain that he’s exhausted from crying for three hours straight after Osborn’s funeral, before an extended snuggle session, and then got beaten up by three thugs because he was distracted, fixating on how lucky he was to not end up as a guinea pig on a cold table in an Oscorp lab.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Niall looking at him with an expression of amusement and concern. He waves it off, then nods at the teacher, mumbling an apology.

Nick sneers behind his back, earning himself a scolding look from Mister Larson.

Louis straightens up in his seat. He looks down at his notebook and allows the numbers to dance in front of his eyes for a second.

"I’m aware that you already know all of this, golden child, but maybe try to not slip into a coma," says Niall as soon as the attention of the students draws away from Louis. "Nights are made for sleep, man, not for whatever shenanigans you were up to long enough to be online at five.”

"Sleeping is sorta the last thing on my mind nowadays."

"I know that all that's on your mind is dick, one _particular_ dick, but—”

“Why were _you_ online at five?”

“Don't ask questions you don't want an answer to. And I asked first.”

“Gross. I had a lesson on as to why many believe Nick Carraway is gay,” Louis explains truthfully. "By many I mean me and Harry. And it is night,” he mutters, nuzzling back into his crossed arms. “In China. I think. Maybe. Jacksonville? Croatia. Somewhere for sure. Night is a state of mind, honey, anyways. It’s a lifestyle. You either night or not night.”

Niall sighs fondly. "You’re making even less sense than usual. The break's soon. Harry will be there, he'll kiss it all better."

 

 

“You look like shit.”

“Harry!” Niall’s voice high-pitches with outrage.

“What? You told me to be gentle.”

“That was _gentle_?!”

“Well, I could tell him he looks like he had a bad date with an abusive pterodactyl followed by two weeks of sleepless nights, but I didn't, so yes, that was the gentle version.”

“In what world is telling someone they look like turd an expression of tenderness?!”

"I can't possibly tell him he looks worse than when live action _Kim Possible_ aired, he has feelings."

A crooked sad smile tugs on Louis’ lips in response to his friends’ argument. He doesn't join the conversation as it starts when they begin walking to his locker, feeling worse than in the class. He needs a nap. Like three weeks of a nap.

One that's apparently not meant for him as he feels a tingle crawling up his spine and forces himself to resist the urge to dodge out of the crowd. Spider-sense going off at school can mean only one thing. He makes himself keep walking, cringing only slightly a second before a shoulder slams into him, knocking him into the lockers through a line of cheerleaders.

The girls squirm and throw annoyed looks at Nick as Louis pushes off the lockers with a sigh.

“Oh, my, my.” Nick puts on a shit-eating grin, voice going sickeningly sweet and venom-dripping. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

"Just get lost, Nick, go talk to walls so you can have an even conversation," Louis mutters, making to walk back towards a dumbstruck Niall and Harry and rubbing his shoulder as if it actually hurt.

Nick frowns and takes a step forward, appearing as if he's about to hit Louis again, but he stops when something, or rather someone, gets into his way.

Louis’ eyes widen in horror.

"Haz, you goddamn moron, get outta here," he hisses into Harry's ear, trying hard to ignore the small throng gathering up around them.

"Not your business, fairy." Nick reaches out to shove the human obstacle away, which oddly is what gets on Louis' nerves. He shoots a hand forward before Nick's manages to make contact, gets a grip on Harry's shoulder, and exchanges positions with the startled boy quicker than he thought he'd manage. 

"It's _not_ his business," he almost growls, slapping Nick's arm away. “You said it yourself. Leave him alone.” The 'or’ hangs in the air, unspoken but obvious.

He's surprised by his overprotectiveness, but Nick doesn't appear to be as confounded. He seems to be a bit taken aback by the physical defense, though, perhaps because it's something that Louis’ never done. He grins again, like it’s the exact effect he had wanted to get.

"Sure. Don't sweat it, Tomlinson." He throws his hands in the air in a mocking gesture of surrender. He gives another unreadable glance at Harry standing behind Louis' shoulder. "Have a good day."

He walks away to join what Louis affectionately calls his doormats, leaving Louis with nothing but boiling rage and what he can’t help but feel is a bad omen about the upcoming days. Harry's fingers curl on his shoulder, the tips digging into his flesh reassuringly.

“S'alright,” he says loud enough for only them two to hear. “I was okay, I could have handled it. I'm a big boy.”

Louis’ jaws set. “I know you would have. I know. If that dick lays even a finger on you, I will not hesitate to rip his goddamn arm off. No one touches you without your consent, not on my watch."

 

He makes to say more but freezes, mouth agape, remembering himself at the last second, and stills. Harry, enthralled, watches as his jaw twitches and fists clench in aggravation.

"Hey," he soothes, lifting a hand and squeezing Louis' shoulder. "I can handle myself. Trust me."

Louis only nods. "Okay. I do."

Niall smiles encouragingly, patting his arm like he always does, telling him to not care about that asshole, then rolling his eyes and asking what the hell even that was about.

Louis lets out a shaky breath, both hands wandering up to his face to hide it away from the discarding crowd around them. He's glad that he managed to keep his strength in check, but he's less thrilled that he even responded to any of Nick's words.

He goes into autopilot again, his mind only partly aware of his surroundings as he's taking the few last steps to his locker and shrugs off his backpack. He tunes back in just in time to hear Niall’s interruption.

“I don’t get you, Harry, one moment you take only a second to tell two sentences and the next you take for-fucking-ever to get it out.”

Louis’ head snaps up on a instinct he didn’t know he had.

"Don't," his voice is dangerously close to a viking-ish grunt.

Harry spares him a reassuring glance. "Lou—"

"If I hear you not letting Harry finish what he wants to say again, I'll glue your balls to the window."

Niall's brows wander up in sheer surprise, which... fair enough. Harry's eyes are fixed on Louis with undisguised fondness. Louis feels a stab inside his heart, presuming that people usually cut Harry off when he switches to his slow talking mode and tell him to shut up. He stares at him, waiting for an abashed, brushing-off reaction, but it never comes.

"A'ight, knight in shining armour." Niall looks between him and Harry twice before shrugging. "But you can’t deny that Harry—"

"I don't care," Louis chastises, turning back to his locker and closing it. He throws the book into his backpack and slides both of the straps on his shoulders. Then he faces confused Niall. "We put up with you, you put up with him, even if he speaks two words per hour."

Niall rolls his eyes and mumbles something about infatuated morons, his head turned to the side.

Harry catches Louis' gaze and sends him that kind of a smile that usually works when he wants something but not in this case, not in this department.

"Any chance you wanna burn the list and make out like teenagers in heat?"

Louis fails to smile, his mind already racing towards stupid ideas. 

_Nope. No can do._

 

 

 

Naturally, this is how he finds himself in an alley nearby Midtown High two minutes and three seconds after the last bell. He's 32% sure he has better things to do at this hour, such as pretending he doesn't care and attempting to believe himself whilst knowing it's a losing game.

At least his pep-talks are still running flawlessly. Stability is the key.

"A bodyguard. Yeah. That’s what I’ve been missing. Dreams coming true, really. I can die happy now, throw daisies on my grave.”

He stashes his civvies into his backpack, the suit hanging on him like an oversized onesie, and curses under his breath when the zipper doesn't cooperate. Once the bag is safely closed, he throws it high and shoots a web to stick it to the windowless wall. The choice of the narrow Evans Road—a street a block away from the school—that’s usual, but the reason is brand new and not sparking joy in Louis’ heart.

He hums the tune of _Lady Marmalade_ , hand pressing the spider’s body on his sternum.

The suit tightens around him like a second skin and the display embedded in the lenses turns on. He checks the weather widget forecasting warmer days, and sighs with relief. Being Spider-Man during winter _sucks balls_.

He jumps onto the nearest wall and starts scaling it as quickly as he can.

As if he hasn’t had enough stress lately, Nick just had to make him feel like he needs to keep a closer eye on Harry. Sure, nothing better than becoming a personal bodyguard. It's straight from his six-year-old self’s Christmas wish list.

He would have dismissed the idea of monitoring Harry after school if it wasn't for the fact that his spider-sense hasn’t stopped buzzing ever since the encounter with Nick. Louis has learned to not ignore the sixth sense, especially when it comes to this particularly soft and intense kind of tingling which usually means there is danger hanging in the air and just waiting to drop down out of the blue.

Lo and behold, a few jumps later it turns out he's not wrong this time, either. 

He peeks over the ledge of the flat rooftop at the beaten track between two buildings. The pathway is more often than not under siege by Nick and his small army of minions, and since Nick doesn't need to beat the money out of freshmen, he narrows the usage of the place to threats or mocking the passers-by.

“Dude, you really need a hobby.” Louis sighs. “Go feed ducks or something. Watch grass grow.”

He’s pretty sure that Harry isn't going to get away with just being a  passer-by in this case, so he starts crawling down, watching Nick and Ben trying to intimidate the boy.

Whether or not it should come off as surprising, Louis can’t decide—Harry's stance is nonchalant, back rested on a wall and hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, almost like he's waiting for pizza to be delivered and not for the MSST poster boys for bullying to make him the punching bag for their personal issues and maybe end up in a fight.

It’s easy to figure out that it’s Harry’s approach making Nick's nostrils flutter like he's about to start hyperventilating. Both him and Ben are busy enough trying to rile up Harry to not notice Louis stuck to the wall approximately ten feet above their heads.

"Now we're gonna have a talk," Nick grunts, a pinch of venom lacing his voice. He and Ben must have just gotten Harry up against the wall, which means that Louis’ on time.

"Communication, great." Harry has to be smiling, judging by the way he speaks. Louis puffs out a short breath, calmed down a bit, and decides to listen on. "Alright, I’ve got only three things to say. One, there are more chickens than humans on Earth, which is pretty cool, but does this mean they’ll take over the world? An octopus has three hearts, but does that make him more capable of love? 'Cause the fuckers _do_ seem a bit scary, absolutely terrifying. And third of all, if you wanted to ask me out, you could've done it in a less aggressive way. Let’s save cockiness for the bedroom, ma’am, shall we?”

"Alright, I don't think you get why you're here," Nick snarks, leaning forward and placing one hand on the wall over Harry's shoulder.

Louis prepares for an intervention, but a smile is dancing on his lips as he watches Harry playing a fool. He’s gotten used to the boy’s rambling and the out-of-place responses, but it’s overly entertaining to see that oddity in action other in a context other than friendly banter.

"Uh, a date? Tacos? There's a place—"

"Okay, man, listen to me,” Nick cuts in, his hands twitching. “You take those words you wanna say and suffocate them. Deep down. Kill them all and just _shut the fuck up_.”

“Okay, but look—”

“Why won't you do us all a solid and zip your fucking mouth shut, huh?"

“Do I look like a goldfish to you?”

“Do I look like I'm jokin’, freak?”

Harry shrugs in response.

"Did you just _roll your eyes_ at me?" Nick closes the distance between them, and if it wasn't for the bull-like attitude and Nick’s undisguised homophobia, it could look like they're about to kiss. “He’s rolled his eyes at me.”

Harry opens his mouth to talk more, but Nick lets out something that sounds like a growl, so he pauses for a second to clear his throat and perhaps change his mind in terms of what he’s about to say. His tone is still casual, and that’s when Louis understands that Harry’s not scared. At all.

"Look, you need to get in your allocated bully time, I get it, s’ cool, really, God bless America and all that.” He pauses to take a breath. “But there's something that, in my humble opinion, you really, _really_ need to know in this _very_ present moment. Like, it's as important as knowing that you can't sneeze with your eyes open."

Nick blinks, his face screwing in confusion. "As in?"

"I'm hungry like from here to Holmes Chapel," Harry announces, a whiny note taking over the quippiness of his prior speeches. "Now that we’ve established this,” he pats Nick's shoulder, “let’s go grab a taco."

Louis didn’t think it would be possible to actually hear someone gritting his teeth, but now that he’s witnessing Nick’s face starting to colour a range of reds and clenching his jaws, he thinks it’s actually a thing. He looks and sounds madder than Louis has ever seen him, and he did once witness Nick going full berserk on a junior who'd accidentally spilled juice on his shoes.

Granted, he can’t decide whether it’s funny or scary, so he continues to watch with a smirk dancing underneath the mask.

"Are you bein’ fuckin' _serious_ right now?" Nick spits out.

"As serious as I can be when I feel like I'm totally gonna unsheathe my sword if you catch my drift. You’re too close, man. Could you—”

Judging by the way Nick’s fingers dance on the cold wall and his stance becomes unsteady, he’s never had to face someone who’d actually talk him back. Not to mention that the latest comment of Harry’s quite contradicts with his personal views.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Harry shrugs.

“It’s junk-biology, man. I realize you’re probably unfamiliar with even the word ‘alphabet’, okay, so to level with your what your brain cells understand, porn explains boners pretty we—”

Louis' cue occurs once he notices the way Nick's hand curls, ready to throw a punch.

He shoots a web at the boy's arm and holds it up in the air. One more flick of a wrist and Nick's mouth is webbed shut. Louis allows himself to grin, but suppresses the want to paint more web over Nick and glue him to the nearest wall with the brand new web silk.

He gets off the wall, does a lazy flip, and lands behind Nick and Ben’s back.

"Sup, guys, you asking him out for a movie night?” he quips when they turn to face him. “ _The Party's Over_ has just started screening, you're in the nick of time."

"Hey, Spidey!” Harry greets him with a nod and a wide smile. “My knight in shining spandex."

Louis’ answer has to wait since it would appear that Ben seems to be stupid enough to start a fight with a genetically enhanced human being. He yanks Nick and Ben by their shirts, pushing them against a wall a couple of feet away from Harry, and sends a few more strings to web their wrists with barely concealed enjoyment.

"Cool your pits,” he says, checking again if the diodes on the insides of the web-shooters glow in yellow. As much as he'd like to see Nick stuck to a wall for eight hours, two will do enough. It _is_ cold after all, and he has a heart. “Judging by the looks of the situation, I don’t think the guy gave you his consent, fellas. So why won't you do me a solid and never bother him again?”

He feels a sting of pleasure as he sees the boys squirming in the webs, frustrated and more than a little startled by the turn of events. 

"Hop on," he says offhandedly, looking over his shoulder at beaming Harry.

As he takes the few steps towards him, Harry looks like he's having the time of his life, and he most probably is. It's adorable and Louis decides on ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

"Hi."

"Hi. Hold on tight, try not to throttle me," Louis instructs as the boy climbs on his back. He is positive that he's blushing, and once again he's glad he wears a mask. 

While he gets hold of the underside of Harry's thighs and places them comfortably enough to move nimbly when scaling the wall, Harry sends a kiss to the guys before Louis takes off and starts crawling up, not even turning once to glance at the bullies.

" _Adiós_!"

"Don't scream into my ear," Louis instructs him, doing his best to ignore the way the boy's warm body wrapped is around him. He can do this.

"Aye. You got it. Sorry."

They stumble a bit on the rooftop as they come over the top with half of Louis' usual grace. He's pretty proud of himself, given the distraction on his back and the craving to go back down and kick the asses he left stuck to a wall.

It’s only when he straightens up he realizes what he's just done. He’s taken Harry onto a _rooftop_. What was even his plan? What did he want to do? Throw Harry off the edge? Web him to a chimney? He must have tripped, cracked his head, and left his brain on some sidewalk and he didn't even notice because he has no goddamn clue what he's just done.

Ten stores up. On a rooftop. Of a building. He's officially and utterly out of his mind.

“Change of plans— ”

“Houston, we have a problem,” Harry cuts in right when Louis’ about to turn and take him down to the ground where he belongs because he just cannot be there. It's too dangerous.

“Hm?”

“As much as I like being in this position, 'cause, let’s face it, the suit is warm and the view is really nice, and not everyone can get a piggyback ride on Spider-Man, would you, like, by any chance, mind letting me go?”

"Nothing's stopping you." Louis shows his hands up to prove his point, frowning.

“No shit, Sherlock. I’m trying to say that I'm stuck.”

Louis glances down at the arms wrapped around his shoulders. He reaches up to pull one of them away from his body.

"It's..." The arm doesn't move an inch. "Stuck. Okay."

"What do I keep tellin’ you, Miss Marple? Pay attention. It's like that one time when me playing with Elmer's turned into a cry for help and a solvent. Thought I'd never play the violin again."

While Harry blathers on, Louis focuses on ungluing the boy from his skin, wondering when he became capable of making the whole of his body sticky. Seconds later, Harry lands on the rooftop with a thump, confirming that he’s been paying no attention to the fact that Louis was doing his best for them to not be stuck together for the rest of their lives. Come to think of it, he probably would be okay with it.

“Wanna go get tacos?” Is the first thing he says after getting up and brushing off his jacket. “There’s a place a few blocks away.”

“We need to get you on the ground again,” Louis replies in the most serious tone he can pull off right now. It's hard to stay focused on the task when Harry's cheeks are painted with rosy blush and he seems to be enjoying every second of his current reality.

Harry pouts. “I’m being serious.”

“That makes two of us.”

Once on the ground, after numerous whines about how the city looked cool from the rooftop and more than one ‘why are you like this’ from Harry, Louis shrugs him off his back, this time sure that Harry isn't as much stuck as just willing to stay on him for a few more minutes or hours.

“Tacos?” Harry asks again, fixing the backpack straps and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Can’t.” Louis tries a weak smile, then realizes Harry can’t see it. “I’ve got patrol. Sorry.”

“S’cool, I’ll ask Louis.” The boy shrugs, no sadness in his eyes. “When will you come by? I’m still waiting.”

“Soon, hopefully. I’m pretty busy these days.” It's not like he's the first to admit that he's actually got his pants in a twist a little at the thought of a one-at-one conversation between Spider-Man and Harry.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Louis echoes, taking a few steps back from Harry, slowly realising he’s chatting to him in the middle of a sidewalk and people are throwing glances.

“Go be a hero.” Harry nods at him with a grin that unwantedly warms up Louis’ heart. “Take care.”

As he takes off from the ground, he’s more than sure that Harry waves him goodbye, but he never checks, hurrying to change into his civvies and pick up his phone just to let himself be dragged down the street for tacos a few minutes later.

 

 

“Proposition a, I go grab the food, you stay here and look sexy,” Harry says once they're by the door of Taco Bell. He's facing Louis and counting the possibilities on two fingers. "Proposition b, we go in together because it's fuckin’ freezing."

“B all the way.” Louis nods, desperate to finally be inside some building. He’s close to thinking that his nose is gonna fall off, and he’s sure he wouldn’t look half as appealing without his nose as he does now, even when sleep deprived and pale from cold. 

This time, instead of tugging Louis, Harry jumps behind him and pushes him through the door, sighing when they walk into the warm area. He instructs Louis to pick a table to sit  while he’ll go place the order without even asking what Louis would like to get. Then again, what can you get at Taco Bell?

Seconds later, after seating himself by the window, Louis watches Harry as he’s speaking with the young man behind the counter. The worker—his name tag says Peter—is laughing as he listens and notes down the order, eyes following Harry’s widely gesturing hands at the digital menu boards, apparently having a good time with a polite customer. Peter seems about fine, and Louis thinks that maybe he’s glad that there are people who will treat Harry right if he happens to screw up. And he most probably will.

He wonders if Harry will bring up Spider-Man; as someone slightly obsessed with the hero, he should start talking his ear off pretty soon. Darting his eyes away from the boy, Louis tries to list out reasons why he even agreed to come here, as if it wasn’t already clear that he’d be down for whatever Harry proposes, even if it was a field trip to a prison yard. It _is_ a free dinner, at least, which is something Louis doesn’t turn down. He shouldn’t.

Plus, now it’d be rude to just disappear. As far as his patrol craving goes, Jay raised him better than creeping out of a bar just because he doesn’t want to get too friendly with a guy he 25% definitely crushes on. Which, for the record, is ridiculous when he realises how much he allows the cuddles.

“Long time no see, love,” Harry cheers as he slides on the seat opposite to Louis. He drops the tray between them laden with a pyramid of tacos and what looks like a fence made from Nacho Fries, sending Louis a bright smile.

Harry's Adam’s apple catches his attention for absolutely no reason other than it's Harry's everything that's Harry's is worth looking at. Louis finds himself wanting to lick his throat. Christ, he's getting distracted again. Why is Harry so bent on wearing one to two size too big, loose V-neck blouses exposing half of his collarbones? Why does he have to torture Louis like that? Louis' been a good boy, honest to god, he deserves better than that.

When his eyes wander up to Harry's lips he realizes that the buy just said something and he didn't hear shit.

"Huh?" He blinks at Harry, perplexed.

“You’re still here.”

“‘Course I am,” Louis assures, switching to rest both of his elbows on the table as he leans forward a bit. He gives the food a wide-eyed look.

“Don’t look so frightened, I’m paying. FYI, Peter gave me three for free,” Harry informs him as he grabs one of the tacos, “and said ‘good luck with your date’. I wish.”

Louis almost chokes on his own spit. “Okay.”

“Don’t worry, told him that it’s not a date.”

“Thank you?”

“Which turned into him trying to ask me out, but since I’m nice, you know, ‘cause I am, I brushed it off nicely.”

“You wish you were nice.”

“I am nice. I'm nice to nice and polite to assholery. The latter has its limits.”

“Was Peter nice or an asshole, then?” Louis asks, his stomach twisting.

“Very nice. Didn’t get offended when I turned him down. He’s cool.” Harry takes another bite, chews, and swallows. “He studies biophysics, has a dog named Clifford, and recommended me _Kill Your Darlings_. So at least we know what we’re watching next. He also wanted to give me burritos, but I came here for tacos, so I got three tacos for free, and that’s how you have to eat three more tacos now, no excuses.”

“Why me?” Louis unwraps the food, allowing himself to tune out and focus only on Harry’s voice.

“Because of the way the moonlight dances in your eyes.”

“One of these days I’ll get a hang of how your brain works.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry supplies. “For real, though, you’re _tiny_ . Niall showed me some evidence from like, before we first met? We oughta write a book about it, by the way, _How We Met - The Toilet Story_. Ni showed me those, and you were even skinnier, but with those cute nerd glasses I saw you in a year ago or so. You wearin’ contacts now, right? Brings out the turquoise in your eyes.” He sighs and takes a break to bite into the taco. “Truly, your eyes are something else. Do you do parkour? I saw you the other day jump over the—"

Before Harry can open his mouth again to continue, two cups are stood on the table and he almost jumps in his seat instead.

“You forgot,” Peter says, winking at Harry, and casting Louis a kind smile.

“Thanks,” Louis speaks up for his company, voice suddenly strangled. He pushes away the echoing jealousy in his head. Or he tries, that is.

“Yeps, thank you.” Harry smiles without even looking aside, his eyes stuck on Louis.

Peter turns and walks away, not looking too distraught by the lack of attention. 

Harry puffs his cheeks. “Anyhoo.”

Louis shakes his head and focuses back on Harry’s rambling. This afternoon he discovers that he’s capable of eating seven tacos, and that Harry can talk really fast when he wants to, and that if Harry had a tail, he’d be wagging it hard after his share of food.

Harry never mentions Spider-Man and Louis never asks.

 

leeyum, 4:07 PM

are you free on thursday? there’s a thing

 

4:33 PM

for you always

 

leeyum, 4:34 PM

come at mine around 7?

 

After considering the weather conditions, Louis decides to swing his way to Dartmouth Street.

Once again he’s grateful for the suit having a heater and being waterproof as he lands by the Forest Hills Stadium, his feet thumping softly on the damp from the little snow they had in the morning. He gets to one of the columns, looking around.

The street is usually empty, since its locals are at work all day long, and most of them don’t have kids. Judging by the houses, gardens, and the few cars on sidewalks, it’s easy to deduce that Dartmouth Street isn’t necessary a children-friendly—let alone human-friendly—area of Queens. Just like Liam’s parents, most of the adults living here are stuck-ups with jobs that mean they’re part of the I Earn Enough To Buy a Ferrari Without Batting An Eye club.

Louis quickly changes from his suit into civvies, shaking and cursing at the weather, but grateful for the dinner he had with Harry. It’s been a while since he’s had his belly full and mind at rest, so it’s with a smile that he heads out from behind the column, shrugging his shoulders up by his ears as the cold of late winter nips at his face. If he could, he'd be walking around in the suit all day, the heater is a wonder.

The closer he gets to Liam’s house—a restored, two-story building with a red Lexus on the driveway, and a currently dead but huge garden in front and a pool behind—the more clear the conversation going on inside gets. It becomes obvious that Liam’s mom seems to be firing out the hate particularly strong today, which doesn’t bode well for either Louis or Liam. Especially Liam.

“Yeah, see, if I’d read the articles I'd probably be pregnant, have four different types of cancer, gonorrhea, and cervicitis.” Liam sounds angry, even though his mom doesn’t pick up on it. It’s Louis’ sense that allows him to hear that strangled note, because Liam isn’t allowed to talk raise his voice at home. “Dad's screwed up symptoms come from alcoholism. Psychopathy is a mental disorder, mom, and can be diagnosed only with—”

“Don’t act like you know shit, squirt. Definitions don't come from nothing, and I've read the definition.”

Louis sighs, his heart aching.

"With reading should also come understanding and it seems like you missed the second part."

He walks up the intricate stone pathway, smile fading away from his lips as he bites on the lower one. He presumes that knocking wouldn't be a good choice right now. So he waits.

"I think you’re forgetting yourself, young man."

"It's called manipulation. I know enough about media—" Liam seems close to erupting.

"You know about media? In theory, maybe."

"Mom—"

"Yeah, yeah, I forgot that your daddy's a wonder of this world, and I am just a bitch fucking around like there's no tomorrow. Just there to cook and run, aren't I?"

"I was—"

“Get out of my sight.”

“I’m going to Niall’s.”

Louis ends up patiently waiting for the heavy, wooden door to swing open and Liam to appear in front of him. Among all this distress, he finds himself quite content that he won't have to face the infuriated Ms Payne.

“Hey, love,” he greets his friend with a hesitant smile and spread out arms.

Liam falls into him, the door closing shut behind him as he hugs Louis close, clearly craving any sign of affection.

“S’alright, let’s walk a few steps away,” Louis tells him as he drags them away from the door, listening to his senses in case the female head of the Payne family decides to check on them from the window.

They step away from the house, Louis’ arm wrapped around Liam’s shoulders as they go. He allows another tight hug when he’s sure that they’re out of the view.

“S’okay,” he whispers when he hears Liam starting to choke on tears. “Bring it in.”

“I hate them so fucking much,” Liam mutters into his jacket. He sniffles, but doesn’t withdraw yet, clutching tighter on Louis. “I just wanna get away from here.”

“Just a couple of months, I know you can do it.” Louis slides a hand up and down his back. “Once you graduate you’ll go on your own, they can’t stop you. We’ll help. We can live together. You, me, Niall. Maybe even Haz and Zayn. Five gays in one apartment, it’s gonna be the best time of your life. I’m preemptively warn you that I’m not gonna apologize for screening _The Proposal_ three times a week, so scratch it off your to do list now that you’ve been warned.”

Liam hides his face entirely, and it’s a bit of a challenge since he’s about two inches taller than Louis, but he manages, and Louis embraces him tighter in hopes it will make him feel a bit safer. He plants a kiss in his friend's hair.

“Come on, let it out. That’s it.”

Liam seems to try to swallow down whatever is trying to shatter apart inside of him, but he gives up a short while later with a small, choked out gasp, pressing his face into Louis even more.

Louis holds him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing over his back.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, letting him cry in peace, until Liam sniffles one last time and withdraws. “It’s gonna be okay, you’ll see.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, reaching to the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a pack of tissues.

“Shut up.” Louis ruffles his hair, trying to smile. “You know I’m always there for you.”

“Shoo.” Liam pushes his hand away, but his lips twitch upward a bit, and Louis knows he’s going to be okay. “Cover for me on Saturday?”

Louis nods.

“Only if we’re getting coffee now.” He hooks his arm under Liam’s as they start walking in the general direction of Queens Boulevard. “It’s freezing. And you owe me a bagel for the upcoming photoshoot thingy I’m doing for you.”

“We don’t pay in bagels in the MidNews club.”

“You should. For the name itself.”

 

 

“She just got mad for no damn reason,” Liam sighs over his cup of tea as he looks out of the window. “She got cut up about some article on the internet about psychopaths, and suddenly everyone’s a psychopath. She’s a surgeon, she should be intelligent as hell, but she’s just so… dumb. You know what I mean? There’s a difference between smart and intelligent, and she’s the best example. She’s got knowledge, she has to, her job requires it, but when it comes to real life, she’s an absolute damn idiot. She’s one step away from thinking that grass needs petting to grow.”

He pauses to take a few sips, and Louis doesn’t interfere. He follows his gaze, glancing at the street covered in evening darkness.

“Sometimes I think your parents never wanted kids. Especially your mother,” he says, trying to keep Liam talking. Talking and a cup of tea that Louis was happy to supply him with are what recovery from these incidents are made of.

“You mean a kid like me,” Liam snorts, but there’s sadness instead of sarcasm in his voice, and Louis feels his heart break a little more. “That they sure didn’t.”

“Shut your mouth, you know it’s not like that.” Louis leans forward over his coffee, and draws a hand out to grab Liam’s wrist.

“It’d be easier if I wasn’t... you know.”

He tightens the grip on Liam and starts drawing circles with his thumb. He doesn’t know who he tries to calm down, himself or Liam.

“Hey, look. There’s nothing wrong with you, get it? You are who you are.” He offers a smile. “Who cares about who you wanna flirt with? I for one don’t. So many people don’t. Ever since a nordic god from an alien planet dropped down from the sky and started coming to see Tony Stark for tea, people being gay is an issue just a rung below Starbucks being overpriced. Except, you can’t do shit about this. People are gay, bi, trans, you name it, have been, and always will be. There’s nothing inherently wrong with you.”

“We all know I’m just a disappointment to them.” Liam shrugs, avoiding his gaze even after he turns back towards the table. “Not good at this, not good at that, with childish hobbies and no future at all.”

“You still listen to that crap?” Louis digs his fingers into the boy’s flesh. “After you stopped rocking that fishbowl hair, you went up from a four to a ten out of ten.” He cracks another semi-smile. “Seriously, though, don’t let them get into your head. You’re a perfect student, you do all that extracurricular shit, even more than I did back in the day. You’re in the school newspaper, I mean, you’re the _president_ of it, that’s awesome. Not the name, the name’s still horrible. You cook, you clean up the house, you can even freaking _sew_ , and if that doesn’t mean a thing, then I don’t know what they want. You’re perfect husband material. I’d marry you if I—” He pauses. Clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Apparently it’s not enough.” Liam sniffles, not reacting to Louis’ hand on his arm, taking a sip of his tea. “Look, you don’t have to pity me—”

“Oh, _nonono_ , I thought we were waaay past that nonsense. Pity is what you think everyone feels because that’s what your mom’s been always regaling you with. I know that you know that, and I know you realize there’s more to life than just a family, but you’ve got to understand that people care. I care, _we_ care, so shut up and cry everything out as much as you want to because we’re not going anywhere. Not without you. You're stuck with us, pal, for better or worse.”

Finally, Liam looks up to meet his gaze. He seems to be looking for something he's familiar with, disdain or mockery, but when he doesn't find them, he lets out a shaky sigh. He glances at Louis’ hand with a barely visible smile.

“Thanks, Louis.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Li.” Louis lets go of his wrist and leans back in his chair. “I know that not everything is going well for you, that your family sucks balls, but the world keeps on turning, keeps on going. You've got a lot to say and do in your life. You'll be alright. Just hold on.” He pauses, forcing a reassuring smile. “You gotta hold on.”

Liam ends up ordering another tea, not even commenting on the late-hour coffee that Louis’ sipping, and changes the topics from one to another, chatting and laughing, letting himself be.

 

 

Harry falls asleep the moment _Kill Your_ _Darlings_ ends, slumping against Louis' shoulder.

Louis glances down at the storm of chocolate curls making a pillow out of his arm. He angles his face closer to breathe in the chocolate scent of the boy's shampoo. Forgetting himself, humanly selfish, he nuzzles his nose in Harry's hair.

His heart flutters in fair warning but doesn't get to stop Louis from swallowing sharply and tracing his fingertips along a couple of unruly strands.

A minute later he's heading for the bathroom where ice cold water should do him a favor and bring him back to his senses. He finds that even the water knows it's too late.

 

**February the 26th, Thursday**

 

Louis doesn't even make it two steps past the front door of the school when he feels the spider-sense intensify and run down his spine in a warning signal. Two steps. That’s a step up from the one he usually managed to take in freshman year.

He lets it happen, whatever it's gonna be, because as far as he's concerned it's presumably only about one thing. And he isn't wrong.

Nick slams him against the wall by the double door, his hands clutched tight on the collar of Louis’ hoodie, Louis’ backpack dropping on the floor. Nick’s jaw is set tight, eyes have lost a bit out of their usual control and confidence, but his face is still collected. The students flow past them, not really interested in something something that takes place so regularly. Or in Louis in general. They would let him die without batting an eye, he can bet on that.

Louis fixes his gaze on Nick, squinting, picking up on the change of demeanor in the boy. Something’s up.

“Thought I’d have to look for you,” Nick says almost casually, but an unfamiliar note lacing his voice differentiates it from their more routine encounters.

Nick is pissed off. Nick has never been pissed off at Louis. Nick’s bullying tends to be fueled more by boredom and the joy that comes from seeing smaller people whine rather than being bent out of shape. Still, here he is, Nick Grimshaw, boiling with poorly hidden rage. Louis doesn’t know if it’s funny or scary, but he grins emptily anyways, quite astonished by his own confidence.

“Maybe it's your lucky day. You’ve been thinkin’ of me? That’s sweet.”

Nick’s grip tightens as he’s clearly looking for words, eyes scanning Louis’ face.

“Gotta say, I never pegged you for a talker before. With that zipped mouth of yours and no complaints, you’ve been an easy target. Been wrong about you. Or maybe you’ve got mouthy after your boyfriend.”

“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend.” As soon as Louis says this, it’s like all the wheels fell into place, and his reaction suddenly becomes something far from laughter. He forces himself to take a grip on both his mind and his senses.

Nick glances down at his hand curled up around the material. He lets go and starts playing with the hem of the hoodie.

“Consider me uninterested in your relationship status or its type.” He looks back up, visibly fighting to keep his shit together. “What I do care about is you keepin’ your Spider buddy on a tighter leash. Keep him out of my business.”

“What’d he do, say he didn’t like your Porsche?”

Louis’ enthusiasm for bad jokes in stressful situations isn’t met with approval as Nick grinds his teeth.

“I don’t think you quite understand—”

“No, Nick, it’s _you_ who doesn’t understand. I don’t know where you got that idea from, I’m no boss of Spider-Man,” Louis cuts in, voice steady. “Not to mention that I don’t think he’s interested in your business in any way. You’re nothing but a kid from Queens. What even makes you think we know each other?”

“You’ve got your bud Niall to thank for that.” Nick’s smile is half sweet, half malicious.

Louis sighs. Disappointed but not surprised.

“Alright, so what’s the deal?” he asks, keeping a straight face, shoulders coming up in a shrug. “Does your daddy not love you?”

Nick clenches his fist on the hoodie again, tugging it towards himself. 

“Tell the weirdo to stay the fuck away.” His voice is uptight. “To not interfere in my life. If not—”

“You’ll do what, bully me?” Louis cocks an eyebrow and snorts. He makes himself comfortable against the wall. “You'll…” he trails off for a few seconds, “rip my pictures? You'll spill your coffee on my pants, write stupid shit on my locker? Or you’ll finally move that head of yours and use some creativity? We’ve done this dance, Nick. You’re the poster boy for round-the-clock bullying, but there’s a problem, you know? You can't step it up from here. You’re not capable of it.”

“Kitty got claws, I see. You really have gotten talkative.”

“Has this maybe occurred to you that, perchance, I simply got fed up with your crap?” Louis tilts his head. “Everything’s got a limit, even my ability to quietly take your kicks. I'm not gonna let you steamroll over me forever.”

“Look.” Nick lets go of him, takes a step back, and crosses his arms across his chest. “All I want from you is to tell your bud to stay in his lane. I don’t care whether he’s crawling up walls, helping old ladies with their groceries, or fighting pickpocketing. I don’t want him near me is all.”

“Did you leave your brain on the passenger seat? I told you I’m not the boss of him. I can’t make him do anything. What do you want me to do, cuff him up and tickle-torture him until he nods yes to your pleadings?”

“I don’t give a shit about how you're gonna do this. You better figure it out.”

“Or what?”

The bones in Nick's jaws crack. “One day you're gonna pay for that.”

“I don't know what I'm gonna pay for but is credit card okay?”

“You…”

Louis rolls his eyes and looks aside, right at Liam. His friend's eyebrows arch as he stops and asks a wordless question, nodding at Nick. Louis makes a face, trying to show that he's fine, it’s routine.

“I suppose your friend's folks ain’t much aware he’s far from straight, are they?” Nick's smug voice draws Louis’ attention back to him.

Louis looks at wandering off Liam and back on Nick. Liam. Nick.

“Oh-ho, don't you _dare_.”

“Or what, Tomlinson?” Nick grins, his confidence back, both in his posture and voice. “You'll punch me? Cry for auntie? Will Tony Stark come to rescue?”

“That’s a goddamn dick move even for you,” Louis hisses, panic slowly making its way through his nerves and senses.

“Maybe. But look how great it works already.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You might wanna think of your next words, Tomlinson. My folks and the Paynes may or may not be colleagues, so consider me capable of breaking some news for them anytime I want.”

Louis blinks, the gears in his head shifting once again.

Grinning, Nick fiddles with Louis’ hoodie again, dropping his eyes for a moment just to set them back on Louis’, stern and malicious.

“As long as your bud is on a leash, I'll keep my mouth shut.”

The bell rings, and for the first time since the bite Louis almost doesn't hear it, all his senses focused on the situation.

“You don't have any proof.”

“Do I?”

Louis closes his eyes. Inhale, exhale. Test. He's got a physics test now.

“Don't touch Harry.”

“I don’t see your name on ‘im, man. No ownership either.” Nick begins to leave, saluting as he walks away.

 

**February the 28th, Saturday**

 

At some point in his life, at eleven at night as the clock says, Louis catches sight of Harry slumped over on the counter where he seems to be lazily stirring something in a saucepot. The vague awareness that human beings are sort of supposed to be sleeping at this hour gets swept away by Harry’s bedhead and crumpled shirt.

“When’d we fall asleep?” He asks. He clears his throat to get rid of the sleepy hoarseness.

“You somewhere around me asking if you’d like to change the movie because it sucked balls,” comes a reply. “I joined right after.”

“What did we watch?” Louis raises from the couch, eyes stuck to the sleep-mussed Harry, his mind forming a thought that there must be some law against people who look effortlessly beautiful and expect those around them to function normally.

“I don’t know.”

Louis leans against the counter, blatantly staring. Greater individuals than him have most likely tried and failed to not do what he does just as miserably. He’s faintly coming to the realization that he’s slowly but slowly falling for Harry Styles and he doesn’t like it.

Harry glances over his shoulder. “You look like birds made a nest on your head and then threw a party in it.”

“Look who’s speaking.”

Louis ruffles Harry's unruly locks, making him squeal and bat Louis’ hand away.

Hearing the steady, rhythmic beat coming from some of his neighbours, he decides that two can play that game. If harry can ruffle his hormon feathers, so can he. His body relaxes a little as he starts drawing tint circles with his hips while he grabs a small bottle of water from the counter. He shows off shamelessly, doing the easy yet skill-requiring trick with pushing the bottle with the ball of his hand and causing it to flip in the air three times at the lowest height possible.

“What are you dancing to?” Harry laughs, throwing him a glance and biting his lower lip. His throat bops.

Using the scraps of his temporary courage and a whole range of coordination and flexibility, Louis drinks from the bottle, puts it away, attempts a single fouetté in the true Tyler Gage style, and swiftly jumps onto the counter with his ass.

“To the rhythm of your heart,” he replies, leaning forward so the words can fan against Harry's ear.

He gets the reaction he wanted—a trail of goosebumps and a heart missing a beat.

Happy with his shenanigans, he crosses his arms against his chest, and looks back at Harry whose expression segues from fond to a cross between amusement and concern.

“I’m glad you got some sleep.”

It's Louis’ turn to chew on his lower lip as he looks away. “That bad, huh?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re functioning like an average human being,” Harry continues, eyes now back on the task at hand. “No fucking clue how you’re doing it with almost no sleep—”

“How can you know that ‘almost no sleep part’, huh? You stalking me?”

“Your reflexes say one story, the almost black circles under your eyes tell another one.”

“It may be just me reading at nights.”

“Studies say that dark circles are the result of tiredness only sometimes, you know?”

Louis chews his lower lip. He leans forward, gripping on the edge of the counter and shifting his weight forward.

“Wanna know how dark circles under your eyes happen? When you're tired, your body products the chemical cortisol, increasing it dramatically to help give you the energy you need to stay awake. Said cortisol increases the volume the blood in your body, which causes the blood vessels to engorge to accommodate it. And since dark circles are mostly caused by us seeing our blood vessels slash blood through our skin, so it stands to reason that when those blood vessels are engorged.”

Harry gives him a fond, amazed look, one that he always has when Louis switches to his science babble. One that makes Louis blush, and this time is not an exception.

“Does that mean you're admitting you're tired?”

“Hell no. I’m not. Reasons can be also eye strain, sleeping on my belly, deadly liver disease, iron deficiency, dehydration,” Louis lists out the reasons he knows for this symptom, stupidly hoping that Harry will buy it.

Harry shakes his head, boops Louis’ nose, and sighs. He might be rolling his eyes in exasperation, Louis isn’t sure, he’s too focused on the way his wrist works over... 

“What're you cooking?"

“Cocoa." Harry doesn’t even look up. “For the two of us.”

“Maybe lactose is one of my allergies? Causes dark circles, too.”

“Does your kitchen serve bullshit on its own or is it just you?”

Louis snorts. The smile he earns is pleased if a little cocky, and the glance he gets is full of worry. Harry turns back around to stir the pot, apparently satisfied by the lack of response.

Whatever the neighbor was playing qas switched to something slow and very Ed Sheeran, and Louis can only sigh. The realization that there are only so many times he can spend a cozy domestic afternoon with Harry before certain conclusions will be drawn comes to Louis and deflates. He should really care more.

 

**March the 1st, Thursday**

 

It hits him in the morning. First thought. Perhaps it should have hit him sooner. Light years sooner.

Like a wrecking ball, it hits him that he _misses_ Harry. And given the joyful message about what movie they just need to watch, sent that morning at five, it appears Harry misses him, too.

He rolls out of the bed, grunting at the clock showing seven in the morning, and whining at the single, sad hour of sleep.

Louis’ isn’t a very cheerful guy these days, no matter how well he tries to fake it. But with Harry, he's less unhappy. And—in all selfishness—he will take what he can get.

Harry was never supposed to stay for long. Between the strength of Louis’ emotions and the knowledge that the more time they spend together the worse it is for him, the initial plan was to not let Harry get close.

It’s been half a month since Louis and Harry actually had a chance to bond on the Valentine’s Day. Half that since Louis asked to remain friends and Harry agreed. Two weeks since Louis promised himself that he wouldn’t spend his free time with friends. That he would  cut people off in a way, in order that they would be in less danger through being connected to him.

It’s been half a month of near constant touching, talking, and breaking down personal barriers, if those even existed with Harry in the first place. As much as Louis wants it, he can’t bring himself to encourage Harry’s leaving. As a matter of fact, he welcomes his presence every time he has the chance, selfishly coveting any possible attention and time he can from Harry before one day he comes to his senses.

Louis isn’t sure if it’s desperation or selfishness. What he does know is that he’s not keen on the idea of letting go. He's trading sleep for coffee and safety for selfishness. It has no right to end well.

He gets up to take a shower, smiling at the sound of Adele coming from Harry's room.

 

**March the 3rd, Saturday**

 

hazza, 2:02 AM

how did edward get a boner if his blood didn’t flood

 

2:09 AM

i don’t know what’s worse tbh your question or me being awake and responding you

 

hazza, 2:11 AM

answer the question, 250iq

 

hazza, 2:13 AM

darwin says let him die and that him is you. you’re WEAK.

 

Midday comes and Louis pretends to be reading Richards' work on matters while he’s actually listening to the sound of Harry's breathing as he snoozes on his shoulder. A moment of them being together where Louis is far too aware of every passing second and each change in air density, vibration, almost as though he’s anticipating something on instinct.

He doesn’t know what it is that he's waiting for and he's becoming terrified to even speculate.

 

**March the 5th, Monday**

 

Apparently, there are no pros to splitting a year into seasons, and the only con spoken of is “who the fuck thought I'd be up for remembering the date of the first day of summer? Who was the first to think that complicating my life in this way was a good idea?” At least, that's where the list ended because then Harry was already preoccupied with explaining why pink toothbrushes are the optimal choice for purchase and use.

Grabbing a taco after school becomes their thing by the beginning of March.

It’s never planned—it just happens. They walk out of Midtown High, Harry saying his ‘bye bye’s to a confused Niall, and Louis saying his ‘bye bye’s to the early afternoon patrols. Louis’ hasn’t been up to leading a conversation recently, so he’s more than delighted that Harry’s passion for pointless rambling seems to be inexhaustible.

“For my Christmas resolution, I have officially decided to dye my hair pink,” says Harry as they walk out of the subway station.

Louis was dragged out of school by the strings of his backpack like a dog on a leash—except with more fondness and later switching to Harry hooking his arm on Louis’—as if it wasn’t clear enough that he’s got nothing against his and Harry’s after-school getaways, and led to the subway with no explanation for what they were doing other than the ancient Greeks actually sucked and Harry doesn’t like _The Ninja Turtles_.

“Harold, my dear, it’s February,” Louis informs him, falling into the step by his side. “‘Sides, aren’t resolutions meant for the new year?”

“That’s boring.” Harry dips his head back and scoffs. 

“You’re—” _so weird,_ Louis wants to say, but ends up sighing and rolling his eyes, a fond smile pushing its way to the corners of his lips.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by his phone going off in his jeans.

“ _Toxic_? Really?” Louis laughs, looking at Harry and watching him struggle with pulling the phone out of his tight jeans. He knows the issue well enough to have decided a long time ago to pick trackies as often as possible.

“At least I hear my ringtone, douche canoe, I have no fucking clue how you can keep yours on the lowest volume and still hear it ring.” Harry flips the phone in his hand and picks up. “Hi, mom!”

Louis makes himself turn off in order not to overhear more of the conversation than he should, chuckling at the yet another change of the ringtone. It’s one of those things about Harry that he’ll never admit he likes—the odd unpredictability, free spirit that keeps Louis on his edge. You can never predict what Harry will do.

He goes offline, looking around, allowing himself a moment of distraction until he senses the slight shift in the atmosphere. He doesn't react to the thumps of Harry’s shoes hitting the pavement behind him as he goes for Louis’ back, certain that he's not being watched. Technically, he's not, but its bold of him to assume that Louis doesn't have more to him than six senses now. The Harry sense has developed naturally and it's scary as hell, but it allows Louis to twist and catch Harry mid waist, then effortlessly toss him over his shoulder.

Harry whines and tugs on the straps of Louis’ backpack, before quickly settling for singing instead of writhing. Louis takes them into Taco Bell, confident that Britney Spears is what is going to be playing in his head on repeat for the next week or so. 

Once they’re out of the restaurant, Harry nudges him, beckoning with his head at a guy who’s just passed them and whom Louis didn’t notice while they were sitting in the diner.

“Do you think we can ask ‘im where he got it from?” he asks, hooking his arm through Louis’ and digging his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

“Last time we went to an ice cream shop you asked if they have ice cream, so yes, I'm sure you can.”

Louis spares only a passing glance at the bright, unicorn-patterned pink cap Harry’s on about. The the words falling from the mouths of the men standing on his right by the streetlamp pique far more of his interest. A tingle runs down his spine.

Harry breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, and you hid behind chairs. After all this time I still can’t get over your lack of confidence.”

“It was two days ago.”

Louis looks aside at the men, quickly taking in the leather jackets and heavy boots. They're at least forty, well built, and bearded, with the air of individuals looking for trouble twenty four seven, and today appears to be no exception as they pursue their verbal attack at the man Harry mentioned.

"Hey, yo, fag, yo’ momma bought ya that thing?" One of them snickers, elbowing his friend as they burst out into a short laugh.

Louis’ hearing is set on the way the pink cap guy’s shoes shuffle on the pavement when he stops by the curb. He looks up from his half unwrapped taco, eyes searching for the source of what clearly was targeted at him. In less than a second he locates the two men barking a few more homophobic insults. His face is still half hidden under the shadow of his cap and the hood of his military jacket pulled on his head.

He sighs, the are-we-really-doing-this motion visible in his shoulders, and slowly wraps the taco back in its paper, and stashes it into his pocket.

When he speaks up, his voice is warm with an even friendly tone, and tightly controlled.

“I got it from that nice lady, actually. Great piece of ass. Her words, not mine, that last one.”

People on the sidewalk seem to pick up on the growing tension in the air. The ones who came here for the restaurant get inside, the only passers-by rush away from the scene.

The two men look at each other with shit-eating grins. One of them eyes the pink hat again and snorts.

“Sure as fuck, and who's that lady? 'Cause, see, we find it a little bit hard to believe ya.”

“I don't get it.” The young man squints his eyes. The slight movement changes his demeanour from that of an angry civilian into something more violent and dark, and Louis’ insides twist. “Don't you know your own mother's name?”

Unsurprisingly, that sets them over the edge.

The buzzing in Louis’ head intensifies just when the man—lazily, in a practiced move—reaches underneath his thick grey jacket, and a blade catches the weak light of afternoon.

Louis shoots out a hand and grabs Harry's wrist, ignoring the yelp of surprise. He tugs him to the corner of the sidewalk, careful to not drag them under a car, then freezes and watches in horror the scene playing in front of him, the urge to jump in burning every inch of his conscience.

The man is army. Or was. It shows in the way he dodges as the growling men charge at him. It's quick, agile, and clearly trained to the point it's second nature. He bends and twists, before kicking the back of their knees. Then there's another smooth twist of his body, the knife spinning between his fingers, and a shout as the blade sinks in the shoulder of one of the men. Another lighting quick maneuver and a gun appears and effortlessly sends a bullet into the other assaulter's feet—the whole thing lasts a blink of an eye and is overly effortless. 

The echo of the shot is cut by the few sharp groans as the men crash to the ground, their knees giving out blood flowing from the wounds. It's clear that they didn’t have any tactics when it comes to causing trouble, and it's just cost them some quickly served pain.

The young man pulls out the steel and wipes it on the man's jacket like it's a dirty butter knife.

There are gasps, shrieks, someone calling the police, and in the midst of this mess is Louis. Louis who can't do anything. He's out of his suit, one that's safely stashed in his backpack, burning a hole in his spine.

Before he can even start considering his options—he _has to_ do something—the guy murmurs something that sounds like 'idiots’ and hides the weapons back into their pouches on the shoulder holster. As if nothing happened, he reaches into his pocket and a second later he's unwrapping his taco, watching the two wounded men struggle to stand.

“Chrissakes, Lou, hey, it hurts.” Harry taps Louis’ shoulder, breaking him out of a trance.

“Wha—” Louis turns to him, blinking, and looks down at his grip that starts to look dangerously inhuman. He lets go of Harry's arm. “Sorry. Crap. Sorry.”

He makes to say a few calming words, but for someone who just witnessed an assault from up close, Harry seems remarkably unphased. 

As the young man starts approaching them, Louis braces for any impact, for another attack, even though his spider-sense has gone completely quiet. It might be out of tune, though, so he plants his feet to the ground, ready to throw a punch if necessary.

The man stops in his track about a step away from them. Louis glares at Harry warningly when he sees the boy ready to speak up, because _shut up, it's a criminal_.

The young man swallows the chewed mouthful of his taco, licks his lips, and, much to Louis’ bewilderment, _grins_. He pulls the hood back off his head revealing an attractive face that doesn’t look older than twenty three or four. One could misjudge his age due the roughness of his skin and the wise eyes of someone that  has gone through too much in a brief period of time. Louis quickly recognises the resemblance between him and Tony, but brushes it off. The man's hair is blonde, cut short on the sides, and it seems only logical that his eyes strike with ocean blue. There's an inch-long scar splitting his left eyebrow in two thirds, and another across one corner of his mouth. He's definitely harshly handsome, ten out of ten, an equal mix of dangerous and desirable. 

Louis’ useless brain immediately classifies him as a big baby of Ryan Reynolds and Jesse Spencer.

The Reynolds/Spencer high quality dude grabs the cap and in a swift move places it on the mess of Harry's hair.

“Suits you, keep it.”

The gesture makes all of Louis’ hurriedly made up expectations evaporate. He freezes, watching the man bite into his takeout again, wink at Harry, and walk past them as though he hasn't just put down two grown men

“Did this just happen or am I going crazy?” Louis asks, not turning to see the man leave the street. 

“You're definitely going crazy, but this happened,” Harry replies, smiling. “Crazy for me, of course.”

“He's a criminal, Harry,” Louis croaks out, because honestly, his life couldn't get any weirder.

“Like Hannah Montana says, nobody's perfect.”

Louis pulls out his phone to call the ambulance, watching Harry turn the cap on his head backwards and approach the growling in pain men. He stops in his tracks to bend down and pick up an empty Lay's pack. Muttering something along the lines 'who the hell litters?’, he throws it into the trash can standing by the Taco Bell's door, and then squats next to the men so he can check on their wounds as though it's his regular afternoon routine to patch up gang members on sidewalks after assault.

Louis can’t help but be weighed down by the fact that he could have prevented this. Again.

 

**March the 6th, Tuesday**

 

Jay nudges Louis’ leg.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

He hums in response.

He’s been savouring the rare occurrence of a breakfast together—these days it doesn’t occur  too often. Or these years. 

He misses the days when he, Jay, and Dan would sit in the living room to eat their meals together. He misses Dan.

His uncle’s name has been echoing through his subconscious for what feels like a decade but really has been just a day. The guilt is once again eating him up, causing him to lose  focus to the point where he almost drank dish soap instead of water. 

Louis glances at his Aunt as she takes a bite of her sandwich, heart clenching involuntarily at the sight of the shadows smudged under her eyes. He knows she looks better than a year ago when she was freshly grieving her husband while simultaneously having to work harder to take care of Louis and keep the apartment on a single income. It gave her grey hair at the age of thirty five, disobeying the strong and healthy genes of the Tomlinson family. He knows she looks better than she did. He really does. It still breaks his heart.

Louis would often suggest getting a job, one that would help out a little, but Jay would hear nothing of it. She insisted that between Dan's savings and her job they had enough for them to live a decent life. Louis is really grateful for the internship income and its ability to take a bit of the weight off Jay’s shoulders.

Looking better than a year ago makes precisely one of them.

“You working late again today?” he asks, having swallowed the last piece of his sandwich. 

He gets up to follow Jay after she’s stood up from he chair.

“It appears so.” She smiles at him when he joins her by the sink. She makes room for his tradition of washing the dishes and leans with her side against the countertop. “How’s school?”

“Steady. Your nephew’s still the number one disappointment for ditching the extracurriculars.”

“You’ve done a lot of them over the years, they should give it up.” She frowns. “You didn’t ditch them for the sake of it, you were offered a very important internship. One that will open the doors to any university for you which is more than any extracurricular could do.”

“Tell me about it.” Louis grimaces. “But when have teachers ever considered me something other than a machine that could score them some press and help with keeping their profile high? I’m the golden child when I help to fill their trophy case, but I’m a pariah once I ditch robotics. Color me surprised.”

“It pains me to agree. I’m sorry, Boo.” Jay places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes, her voice soft. “I hope this Tony Stark treats you right.”

“He does,” Louis agrees truthfully. “He respects me. Always listens. Treats me as an equal. It’s a nice change of pace, you know?”

“I’m happy to hear that.” She smoothes out some of the tousled bed head of Louis’. “I wouldn’t like you to be spending your time with someone like Calder from your junior year.”

“Oh, God,” Louis sneers. “She was damn awful. Remember how she lost my test and you went to her, and you were like ‘I hope you have an explanation for this,’ and she was like, ‘I got three, take a pick’? My first and last F, that time. I never saw my test, either.”

“Or the time when she tore your book because you’d were already ten tasks ahead and started drawing out of boredom?” Jay lets go of his shoulder and walks up to the refrigerator.

“That’s when she was kicked out,” Louis points out, remembering how the whole school sandwiched by windows to watch the loathed teacher walk away.

“Goddamn right that’s when she was kicked out, that evil bitch.”

He taps his hands on the sink and dries them of with a towel, looking aside at his aunt and her attempts to draw out something new about school from Louis.

“How’s Niall? Haven’t seen him around for a few days.” 

She hasn’t? Louis flips through his mental calendar, searching for the last time he’s spoken to Niall. He definitely saw some unanswered calls because of his more frequent patrols, but now that he thinks about it, Niall hasn’t been to his room for ages. He doesn’t recall any reason why Niall would have gone radio silent on him, but he does have a messy mind, so something may have happened and he can't even recall it.

Then again, his spotty memory might be a result of his brain switching to a keysmash mode half the time he catches himself staring at Harry.

He really doesn't deserve this. This whole throwing off his groove with a pretty guy who happened to transer to Midtown High, this distraction in a form of a beautiful human being, this string on Louis' hands and cuffs on his ankles tightening more and more, making him crave the rooftops and the perfect fit of his suit as it wraps around his body.

He gets what he gets, apparently. Life doesn't ask about what you deserve, it drops at you what's at hand.

“You know how it is, we’re on and off.” He leans against the closest wall, aiming for a casual pose. “He’s fine.”

“He was here two days ago, but you were out.” She puts a yogurt bottle and two bananas on the countertop alongside a small bottle of water.

He frowns. Something stings in his chest. “Was he?”

“Yeah, but ‘no hard feelings’, quote unquote. I’m glad you’re going out more, you know? Even if sometimes it’s just to a food cart or to the living room to sit on a couch and snuggle with your non-boyfriend.”

Louis chuckles, and it sounds a bit foreign, like something forgotten. Even his vocal cords don’t work right through the sounds, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s not as alright as he thought.

The churning in his stomach has nothing to do with hunger and causes him to sigh, blush prickling on his cheekbones.

“You ever feel helpless, Jay?” He asks, casting his aunt a glance.

She responds with a long exhale, leaning against the counter. She looks like she wants to say something, but instead she only nods, staring absently at nothing in particular.

Louis presses his lips together.

“I have.”

_And I swore I'd never feel it again._

 

 

“Mister Tomlinson. Got a sec?”

Louis jerks his head up at the sound of the teacher's voice. He squints, consciousness crashing in on his nap. He quickly realizes that the class is now almost empty, with the exception of Niall standing in the doorway and Elina and Susan in the first row zipping up their backpacks.

He straightens in his chair, blinking at the grandpa-sweaters-loving Bruce Larson. The guy’s in his fifties, but the white hair and numerous wrinkles would have you believe otherwise. Either he’s just unlucky in the genes department or being a teacher really took a toll on him.

Oh, there was a question asked. "Yes, sir?"

"A word, please?"

Louis sends a questioning glance towards Niall whose face expression is completely unreadable. Niall only shrugs and disappears as soon as Anna Maria passes by him.

Mister Larson starts wiping down the whiteboard, apparently waiting for Louis to approach him. Louis collects his supplies and books, throwing them into the backpack which he then slings over his shoulder, and slowly walks up to the teacher's desk.

"Something happen?" he asks, crossing his arms against his chest protectively.

He tries to call up any bad grade or a time he might have come across rude, but nothing comes to his mind. His school life—contrary to the social one—has been continued being nice and steady, staying where it should be, on the very top. He can afford losing friends, but failing at school is an absolute no-no. 

"Not really." The teacher puts the wiper on its place and goes back to his chair. He makes himself comfortable, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the top of his desk. "I just wanted to talk to you for a second, if you don't mind."

Louis shifts, gripping on his backpack straps, elbows hugged tight to his sides.

"No, I don't—I'm not… What's it about? Because my grades—"

"Your grades are just fine, surprisingly." The man nods, eyebrows wandering in slight awe. "I say ‘surprisingly’ because given the amount of time you spend napping during classes, you shouldn't be able to keep your grades as high as they are. Some may think you’re playing dirty."

"You’re well aware I already know all this, Mister Larson." Louis tilts his head, frowning. “There’s a reason why I was always the first choice when it would come to selecting people to represent the school in any contest they wanted to win. Unless it was because of my looks, then I have to admit that you should have reconsidered your choices.”

"Don't get snarky at me, I'm trying to help here."

“And then there's me trying to understand what I’m doing here. There's nothing to help me with. I haven't slipped, my attendance chart is right, and I still know more than all the other Midtown High students put together." That’s risky statement, but definitely close to the truth. He’s pretty sure none of the other MSST students would be able to develop his web fluid or the web-shooters.

"You sure do think highly of yourself." Mister Larson grabs one of his pens and starts fiddling with it, still not breaking the eye contact.

Louis screws up his face, suppressing a snort. "You'd be surprised."

"The point of my concern is your sleeping schedule. That is, if you have one."

"I have better things to do at nights than sleeping, sir, if that's what you're on and about."

"Like what?"

A safe bank. Two women’s lives. Four cars still in the hands of their rightful owners.

"Private matters. Out of the field of your interest, sir."

The teacher nods and lets out a short sigh. He looks rather perturbed.

“Problems at home?”

“Besides no parents, no grandparents, no uncle, and only one aunt that’s working herself to the bone so I can eat something? Nope. Can’t think up a thing.”

“You know what I mean.”

This time Louis doesn’t hold back a breathy, just-drop-it chuckle. "Even if I had any, I definitely wouldn't tell you about them, sir. No offense. I just don’t trust school staff."

"None taken.” Mister Larson nods again, putting the pen away. He pauses for a few disturbing seconds. “I just don't want you to be surprised when your napping habit gets called out at some point. You're not an exception, Mister Tomlinson, you're just another student. A very bright one, as a matter of fact, but still a student. Some teachers might not like your attitude."

Louis tugs his backpack more firmly onto his shoulders and opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted by the buzz of his earpiece that went online the moment the last bell rang.

 _“We got 10-30, robbery in progress. Queens, 10-30 at 21st and Broadway. We have an organised group—_ ”

“If that’s everything, I'll go now. Told my aunt I’d be back home right after classes."

The teacher gives him a weird look.

"You're a good kid, Louis. Remember that. Take care and have a nice afternoon."

Louis can already count the bruises coming his way, but he’s polite in his response anyway.

"You too, sir."

 

**March the 9th, Friday**

 

hazza, 6:32 PM

do u ever wonder why your fingers don’t have fingers

 

6:34 PM

i want a divorce

 

hazza,  6:35 PM

what about 4 cans of red bull / head and a jack sparrow marathon

 

hazza, 6:37 PM

don’t make me sit on my hand til it goes numb so i can then hold it while watchin a movie n pretend its someone else’s hand

 

hazza, 6:38 PM

lou?

 

6:40 PM

i’m out with friends

 

hazza, 6:41

you don’t have friends

 

hazza, 6:41

bring nachos

 

**March the 12th, Monday**

 

A week after the day he watched a blonde man walk away as though he hadn’t just stabbed two humans Louis realises that he doesn't freak out when he hears three knocks and the front door opening, only glancing around to double check that there's no Spider-Man items scattered on the floor. He doesn't say anything when Harry leans on him for no reason, and when Harry shows up and they eat ice cream because Harry claims that winter is the actual best time for eating ice cream, Louis doesn't question it. He forces himself (unsuccessfully) to not stare when Harry brings his backpack and they work on their respective schoolwork because Harry’s furrowed brows and lips wrapped around a pencil don’t do favors to Louis’ poor heart.

Sometimes Harry cracks inappropriate jokes, and Louis goes crimson red, but laughs anyway. He tells Harry so, but Harry waves him off, telling him he's afraid of words, calling him boring, but it never comes across as an insult, a contrast to every other time Louis heard the term thrown at him throughout his school years (ironically spent in nerd schools). Sometimes he throws a loose invitation for Louis to join him around during his yoga sessions, and Louis declines each time, too weak to survive _that_ . He might be part spider but that humane part of him isn't capable of keeping its shit together at the sight in Harry in yoga pants, let alone _doing_ yoga. Have mercy.

There came a moment when Louis had to start straining himself from jumping onto Harry in lieu of welcoming as if Harry’s just gotten back from war. He just misses the boy all the time, every second when they're not together, each moment when Harry's not in sight. He's got it bad.

Louis pushes the doorknob and the first sentence he hears is not the one he thought he would, like, ever. And it has nothing to do with Jay, Harry's befriended Jay at this point throughout the handful of times they've met.

“Be straight with me, Miss Jay, is that the part where we coo over baby pictures?”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but he catches the sight of his aunt demonstratively pulling out a photo album from somewhere by her side on the couch, and almost smashing it on the coffee table. He lets his objection die on his lips, aware of his aunt's stubbornness, and instead marches to the kitchen to unpack the groceries.

“I disappear for what, twenty minutes at most, and you're already conspiring.”

Just like that Louis realizes that in only a couple of weeks Harry Styles has become an integral part of his life.

And maybe his heart beats a little faster each time he sees a bunch of unruly curls, and maybe he doesn't allow himself to admit it, but it’s not as though he needs confirmation from himself. Not when it’s obvious enough that it can be left unspoken and remain known nevertheless.

 

**March the 15th, Thursday**

 

Louis takes advantage of his powers only during the final push towards the finish line. He falls on the front door of Harry's apartment, panting and pretending he's actually tired after running up the five stories  they chose for the race, and watches as Harry stumbles forward the last few steps.

"In my defense," he breathes out, propping his hands on his knees, "I didn't expect you to be this fast." 

"I didn't expect _you_ to be this fast," Louis admits, resting his head on the door. "You don't look much like Patrick Lange to me."

“That's 'cause you haven't seen me naked.”

Harry fumbles with taking his keys from the pocket of his jacket. Louis moves to let him open the door, allowing himself to watch the way the boy's cheeks color with scarlet from cold and exertion.

Harry pushes the doorknob. “Mi casa, tu casa, or something. I don't speak Japanese.”

Once inside, Louis frowns at the light prickle of his spider-sense. He's about to turn around when a red something lands on his shoulder.

"Hey, furball." He scratches the cat behind his ears, feeling his face going soft and eyes fonding over the pet.

The pet purrs, visibly happy with the affection, and snuggles its head under Louis' chin. He's usually good with animals, if you don't count the times when he had to wrestle with cats stuck on trees or when he happened to hit a bird when swinging. In his defense, he didn't expect traffics in the air.

"Yeah, _hey_ , _furball_ ," Harry quips, toeing off his shoes.

"Ouch, would you look at that." Louis reaches to his feet while trying to not make the cat jump away. "Someone's pissy."

"No, why? Why would I be pissy when the cat who hates anyone other than me suddenly greets my friend first? Traitor." Harry pokes the cat’s nose, making it draw out a paw and poke back.

As Louis focuses on not inhaling the sweet smell of Harry's scent all over the apartment, the cat skids away towards the couch where he makes himself comfortable, its eyes still on the boys.

“You never told me you got a cat, and it’s only been a week since I was last here. Did you stash him in your dishwasher in order to not interrupt our secret sexy makeout sessions?”

“Mom said I should get a plant for the living room, so I got us a cat,” Harry explains, walking towards the general direction of his room. “It's been only five days, kinda slipped my mind to mention. Sorreh.”

Louis follows, his arm already drawn up.  
The small of Harry's back has turned out to be the new home for Louis' hand. It's become natural to guide the ever chatty boy as he sometimes loses his focus and goes the wrong way or stops in order to say two sentences in his first gear voice.

“What's its name?”

“Cactus. It's a she.”

They part and Harry disappears behind the door of his bedroom. It dawned on Louis some time ago that throughout the handful of times he's been there, Harry's never invited him to his room, and Louis isn't one to push. He knows boundaries when he sees them.

He joins Cactus on the beige couch, letting out a quiet yelp when the cat decides that Louis’ lap is comfortable enough to sleep on, making it crystal clear he won’t be able to get up without the cat’s approval.

After a minute or two, Harry reemerges. He spends several seconds on puttering around in the kitchen, then steps around the couch, two pints of Ben & Jerry’s in hand.

He’s changed into yoga pants, a pink shirt with the Hello Kitty logo, and an oversized beige sweater that he’s left unbuttoned. His hair is still pulled back with a white scarf, its ends thrown over his shoulder and reaching the collarbones. He looks absolutely edible and way, _way_ too good to be legal, and Louis has to use all his willpower to draw his eyes away.

This. This is exactly why he’s never suggested coming over to the Styles’ more than three times. The comfiness of the establishment is too much to handle.

His expression must look comical, but Harry doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he grimaces at Louis’ ice cream choice.

“It's just frozen toothpaste with little shits in it, man, how can you eat that?” he asks.

“You just single-handedly ruined the word toothpaste for me, so thanks a lot."

“Poop-chipped—"

“You finish that sentence and I’ll straighten your hair while you’re asleep." Louis snatches his tube, making a disgusted face. 

“—iced up toothpaste by Ben & Jerry's, _por_ _favor_.” Harry chuckles. “Poop-chipped.”

“I hate you so much. Why are you so crude?”

“It's you who’s scared of words. Give the minty poopies back if you don't like 'em.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You know, she doesn't like anyone.” Harry nods at the cat. “I shit you not, she hasn’t spared a glance at any of the guests my mom's had around so far, evaporates as soon as the door opens. She’s never spared a glance at my mom, too, to be honest.”

Cactus ignores him entirely as she stretches out on Louis’ lap, demanding attention. Louis wants to answer, but his eyes fall on the coffee table and the paper on it. 'Spider-Menace helps in a street fight' feels like a punch to the gut, especially when the fist-sized bruise on his back is a great reminder of the encounter with three armed robbers. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

"I still don't get why you choose them.” He points to _The Daily Bugle_. Harry follows his gaze. “There are plenty of other tabloids you could’ve asked for an internship at."

"They're the biggest." Harry shrugs, sinking on the couch beside him and hands him one of the spoons.

"And the worst."

“I know.”

Louis watches Harry grab the paper and look for the article from the cover. “Haz? Why are you wearing a shirt with Hello Kitty?"

Unmoved, Harry considers the question, stopping flipping through the pages, before offering, "Just because?”

"Is that a gift from your sister or something?" Louis tries, scratching Cactus as she nudges him with her head.

"From mom, actually. My sister bought me a dress," Harry adds. "Haven't gotten to try it out yet, though."

Louis almost chokes on his own tongue, but ends up going dry mouthed, eyes widened as his brain rapidly constructs an image of Harry in a soft dress. Sometimes he really wishes his imagination wasn't so quick at everything, he would very much like to be a slowly thinking moron with not a grain of occipital and parietal lobes of a brain.

Harry clears his throat and starts reading.

"Three men were arrested for assaulting a pedestrian in Midtown Manhattan. The brawl happened at approximately three p.m. on Thursday along West 35th Street. Spider-Man joined the enraged men in hassling an innocent passerby. The witnesses say three cars and a street lamp were left damaged after the web-slinger took off. The victim of the fight was taken to the nearest hospital, while the three original offenders were abandoned immobilised on a nearby wall. Spider-Man is once again showing his lawlessness, remaining free of any charges for his past incidents which include ATM robberies, car thefts, and car accidents.”

“Now this is the ugly circus I’m talking about,” Louis scoffs, restraining from rolling his eyes.

“It’s not so bad.”

“You’re right, it’s worse than bad. It's down-right tragic. Look at that disaster, it looks like taken by Ben Winston.” He points to the included photograph, slightly askew, blurry, and definitely taken with iPhone. Although calling it a photograph feels like an insult towards photographs. “What about we change the topic, yes or yes? Aren't your parents home?"

It occurs Louis only now that he didn't ask the question in the first place.

"Mom's still at work," Harry informs, discarding the paper on the coffee table. He grabs the remote and makes himself comfortable by Louis’ side.

"Where does she work, if you don't mind asking?" 

This is how a non-involvement strategy works, what a master plan and its resolution.

Accepting the fact that with a single question he has failed in his attempt to not get attached he sighs and shifts his focus to the tube in his hands, opening it and digging a spoon into the ice cream.

"She's a cook at _Emrys's_."

Louis frowns, looking for the place in his mental map. "The five plus star hotel on the East River? Fancy."

"Yeah. She's the chef, so it's pretty cool." Harry nods and swallows a spoonful of Strawberry Cheesecake. "It's why we moved, actually. She got the offer, she accepted, and now we're here in Queens. Hey, is Spider-Man’s sperm lethal?"

Louis chokes on the rest of the ice cream he has in his mouth. Harry comes to the rescue, patting his back, but the cat abandons them, apparently bothered by the lack of attention and tranquility. 

"What?" Louis croaks out, voice high-pitched, leaning back on the couch with watery eyes.

"Spider bites are venomous, yeah?” Harry looks at him as if he asked about the color of grass. “Given that I doubt Spider-Man’s bites do anything, unless they do, which, that’d be cool, there has to be something in him that's venomous. I figured—"

"For the love of Ben & Jerry’s, I don’t know,” Louis rushes to cut him off, blushing hard. He tries to hide his face behind his hand as he closes his mouth around another spoonful of the ice cream. “Jesus Christ, and there I was thinking Niall bringing his own chair into the spanish classroom was a lot.”

Harry grins at him, his eyes sparkling. As he looks towards the TV and tries to find something watchable, Louis makes a note of the warmth pooling in his stomach and crawling along his skin. He's becoming way too enamoured with this boy, but what’s new? He couldn't say the words when Zayn questioned him, but in reality, Louis’ gone. He’s done for.

He has to get his shit together. Some day. Maybe.

He swallows, frowning. “You’ve got, uh.”

“Hm?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, dropping the remote by his side and turning a bit to look at Louis, either completely unaware at the smudge of ice cream above his upper lip, or considering it superfluous to even rub it off.

Louis doesn’t answer. Instead, with a heart doing its best to thud out of his chest, he drops the hand with the spoon and tentatively raises the free one towards the boy’s face. He pauses, his fingertips brushing the air around the boy, as if he wasn't fully sure if he's allowed to touch.

He traces Harry's lip in silence. It’s both alarming and interesting that no cell of his body tells him to run, no sense warns him against any danger. It’s something new and exciting, logically dangerous, but also not so much. Just natural. And he's scared.

He doesn’t hear the TV playing and, frankly, he doesn’t care.

He’s not sure when exactly Harry’s eyes slipped shut, but he thinks he's glad. He does odd things when Harry's looking at him. All his willpower evaporates as he presses a bit and uses his thumb to wipe the cream off the boy's milky flesh.

Harry’s lips are parted just a little, his chest rising and falling slowly to match Louis’. Louis wonders if that was done subconsciously, but then again, _he doesn’t care_. The air around them seems to thicken, sweet and cloying. Louis sucks in a pained breath. Sweet Christ, what is he doing?

Then Harry’s eyes flutter open and he looks, and goddamn hell, the way he _looks_ , pupils blown wide and dazed. His tongue darts out to lick the ice cream away from the pad of Louis’ thumb.

Suddenly, play-acting as something more than friends is nowhere near as easy as Louis’ heart has gotten involved along the way, and he only just fully realized it. He doesn’t tense. It’s neither a shock or surprise, not a cold spray on a summer day, not a bucket-of-ice kind of sensation. It’s a slow coming-to-terms of something, a realization that’s been floating in the back of his mind for a bit now. It tested the waters and finally dared to jump in.

Louis withdraws his hand, blinking the moment away and pretending to not see the quick flash of hurt crossing Harry's face.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Even his voice sounds fogged, he’s not so sure if the words even transmitted through his vocal cords.

Harry examines Louis’ face, his expression oddly contained. Whatever he feels is well hidden as the smallest smile creeps into the corners of his eyes.

“No, you're not.”

Louis’ throat tightens, tears choked somewhere deep and aching as he takes a sharp breath.

 

 

He kicks off his shoes, intuitively trusting his body to keep him from tripping over his own feet as he storms through halls of the apartment to his bedroom where he falls on his knees next to his backpack. He yanks the suit out and sheds his clothes, dying to put it on and get rid of the sight of his own skin.

He wants to punch something, to _hurt_.

It takes him three buildings before a ragged sob breaks out from his chest.

He yanks the web string far to roughly to land on the wall, crawls into the narrow alley, and only then he curls into himself and tears the mask off. His fist clenches around it as he presses it into his stomach, another quiet sob leaving his mouth. He cries, ugly and silent, biting down on his wrist to stifle the whimpers that tear from his ribcage. 

It’s for him only to hear it, yet another secret he has to keep.

It hurts. Losing something, it hurts. He’s familiar with the sense of loss, but this is different. This time he lost something that he wouldn’t let himself have, to own and cherish for even a second. He feels robbed of a right he has never possessed. It sounds so stupid and rom-com-like, but now that it’s there, he realizes that it can be real, and it sucks, to say the least.

He thought that maybe it wasn’t so serious, that maybe it was a crush that would pass, something silly and light. It was fun and so juvenile, fresh and hot. He didn’t understand this. Before today, he didn't know what it was exactly, and now he doesn't want to know. He couldn't afford to know. _Can_ ’ _t_ afford it. Didn't dare to think he could have something just for it to be ripped away from his hands.

He made a promise to distance himself from Harry, and that’s exactly why he hates promises. They never last.

Instead of ripping his heart out of his chest, he takes a deep, shattered breath, and forces himself to even out his heartbeat. It will be okay. Somehow. It has to.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s a herom right? That's what they say.

 

 

Louis knows that crime never sleeps, but maybe crime should start considering it and care about the curfew he doesn’t have. 

The air rushes around him for a few glorious moments, then Louis shoots a web at the building across the street, getting ready for some low swinging due to the lack of high points in this area of New York. He moves forward with dizzying momentum, letting go, falling, and shooting another web, this time anchored on a street lamp. Flipping mid-air  and vaulting over rooftops were out of the question once he gets out of the skyscrapers, now he forces himself to slow down and focus on getting down to business. He doesn’t feel like heading back home yet, and Jay’s still at work, so he’s gonna do the best of the night.

It’s not like he’s forcing his mind away from a certain person, not at all.

He shoots his body upward, does a single flip for balance, and lands as quietly as possible on a nearby rooftop when he feels his sense go off faintly. He crouches on the ledge, ready to jump if necessary, and settles for taking in the figure sitting with their legs dangling over the edge of a two-store building across the street.

Judging by the posture, it’s most likely a man, dressed in a black unzipped hoodie, dark cargo pants, and a red hat. There isn’t anything particularly threatening in the way he is swinging his legs back and forth, leaning forwards a bit to peek at something on the ground almost curiously, but Louis’ sixth sense buzzes and that’s the only indication of danger he needs.

Louis decides to take a closer look at what the man is watching. He springs off the ledge and lands on the wall of the building occupied by the man, then crawls his way up and glances towards the dark, narrow street of Brooklyn, one of many in this particular neighborhood.

There street is lined with several closed shops, cars parked on the sidewalk, and a collection of pedestrians who appear to be either homeless or drunk. The air seems sticky and dirty in spite of the lack of rain they have had recently, but it’s still nothing he’d label as interesting, so Louis continues to scale the remaining length of wall and watches on. He looks at the few blocks across the street. A couple of apartments still have their lights on despite the late hour, wondering if that is what has caught the man's interest.

He makes to get up onto the rooftop and try to approach the guy peacefully, but as soon as he turns his head upwards he’s greeted with a sight of the barrel of a gun. He notices the text 'smile’ and ‘wait for the flash’ carved onto the barrel in capital letters before he tries out the lamest joke.

“Is that a gun in your hand or you're just happy to see me?”

In lieu of response, the gun is replaced with a hand that grabs onto the back of Louis’ suit, hoisting him up and over the edge. He lands on the rooftop with a quiet 'oomph’, cursing himself for losing control over his powers. 

“It's a gun,” Louis grunts breathily. In an attempt to recover from the small loss, he moves into a crouch, and faces the man who's already managed to rise to his feet and tower over him.

His features are obscured by the shadow thrown from the streetlight at his back, making it impossible to tell what he looks like. There’s definitely some strength in him, some confidence in the way he carries himself—shoulders rolled back, feet firmly planted on the ground, chest open, and head up. He looks like a soldier.

Louis decides to speak again, frowning at the silence from the man.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? 'Cause you know a gun works only when you pull the—”

The handle of the gun hits Louis in the left temple cutting off his quip. Louis hisses and rubs his head questioning his ability to focus. He should get an award for not listening to his most important sense when necessary. 

“—trigger. Ouch. It’s rude to interrupt.”

“Try again, web-head, third time's a charm.” He draws out his arm, his body still steady and voice somehow familiar. “Fourth’s a bullet in the head.”

“Why don't you just shoot me?” Louis asks in all seriousness because, honestly, the guy has a weapon he is obviously comfortable with, but he isn’t using it, and that's just not how criminals work. Louis is used to people that actively try to shoot at him the moment they see him. 'Try’ being the key word.

“‘Cause you've done nothing that'd give me a reason to.” The man shrugs. “The shoot-first-ask-later strategy would cost me a bullet, bullets are expensive. Unless you want me to, then,” he spreads out his arms, “be my guest. No backsies, though, I’m no Mediwizard.”

Slowly, observing the man's body language, Louis straightens up from his crouch. He could attack, like he always does, quickly and efficiently, but he’s thrown off by the fact that this is the first time somebody armed isn’t simply trying to take him down. Maybe the man isn't actually about to do anything, maybe he was just chilling out on a rooftop of a building in Harlem, because that's what people do.

“Yeah, no, I don't...” His sentence trails off as his eyes catch the features of the man's face, now faintly lit by the neon of a shop nearby as he tilts his head to the side, and sharpened with a little help of Louis’ heightened sight sense. “It's _you_.”

The man gives him an odd look. “You get the concept of pronouns, I knew there was some brains in that sk—Mother _fucker!_ ”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence as Louis leaps forward to sweep him off his feet. The guy doesn't lose much of his balance, simply falling forwards and somersaults over Louis in a well-practiced move.

Louis turns onto his back and with a push of his arms he throws his body forward, aiming for the man's chest. He fails again, flying free and landing in a crouch, frowning back at the man who's managed to dodge the attack. The familiar blue eyes are on him as he gets to a standing position again. Once again a barrel is trained on him in the blink of an eye.

Screw his pulling punches.

“Alright, spandex ass, I don't have time for _Catch Me If You Can_ , and I don't wanna hurt you.”

“Guess why I find it hard to believe you,” Louis snarks.

“If I knew this was a date, I woulda bought flowers, you should’ve told me.” The man smiles, looking too cheery for someone so dangerous. “You do look like a damsel in distress, to be frank.”

“ _You_ attacked me first!”

“ _Of_ _course_ I fucking did!” His voice raises with the exclamation. “I don’t give a shit about your neighborhood hero status, Captain Onesie, you crept up on me, what was I supposed to do? Pat you on the head and ask about your favourite Little Pony?”

“Maybe you oughta have.”

Louis' breaks the tension by using a slight rock backwards and his arms to throw himself up, springboarding from the ground.

The man turns out to be decent in a close-quarters brawl. He dodges the aim, making Louis overshoot and fly completely off the building. Louis uses the momentum of his fall to web the streetlamp, boomeranging around, and springing himself back up to the roof. He's immediately met with two knives racing towards him, which he deflects midair, managing to land perfectly still on the rooftop.

Louis fires webs out of both of his wrists, aiming for the man’s arms, and everything would be alright if it wasn't for the fact that the man brings him closer by the strings, pulling quick and catching Louis off-guard.

Louis recovers in a nanosecond, using the closing gap to throw a kick and send the man backwards.

"Stay down," he huffs out, actually a bit tired. It's the first time his usual patrol went down to an actual hand-to-hand combat. He's never had to do anything beyond dodging a few bullets and webbing criminals to walls or street lamps.

“Son of a bitch.” The man grunts, and gets off the ground, brushing off the dirt from his jacket and wrapping the web strings around his wrists. He doesn’t seem bothered or frightened, maybe a little pissed off. “Mind tellin’ me why you won’t let me work? Kinda busy here.”

“Work?” Louis raises his eyebrows, the lenses following the movement with a buzz. He allows himself to stand still, but braces himself for any physical impact. “You shot two men in front of civilians two days ago. I don’t give a flying crap about what you’re doing here, you’re going straight to jail.”

“Alright, Red, first off, I didn’t _shoot_ them both. I _stabbed_ one, learn the difference.” He draws out his arm again, pointing with the gun at Louis. “Second off, jail isn't exactly five star. It smells like banana peels stewed in hot urine and they don’t let you watch porn whenever you please, which sucks ass. So that'd be a no to your offer. And what does it matter to you anyway? They were assholes.”

“You attacked them in the middle of the street.”

“And nobody got hurt who didn’t deserve it.”

“I don’t think it’s your call to decide who deserves it.”

“I think the guns in their pockets would have disagreed with that statement.”

Louis swallows _._

“You still haven’t shot me,” he changes the topic, half because he’s curious what’s the man’s game, and half in an attempt to distract him.

“You’ve still not given me a reason to.” The man shrugs. His voice is casual, but there’s a thin layer of steel beneath it. “But I gotta to say, if you keep up the dancing queen game, I might as well. You’re one seriously annoying insect, you know?”

“Arachnid,” Louis corrects offhandedly.

“Whatever. Oh, and don't make this face like you're trying to remember me. I'm not on yellow pages or Craigslist, you won't find shit. Start talking or start dying. Who sent you?”

Louis can’t tell how the man knows he’s actually trying to memorise the man’s face, but decides to shrug it off.

“You mean in a literal sense or in a larger, cosmic sense of things—”

“Who hired you, bug-show? S.H.I.E.L.D.? A.I.M.?"

"Hire—What? Nobody hired me. I work solo." The lenses narrow as he frowns.

“And you just happened to find me like that.”

“More like stumbled accidentally. There’s such a word like coincidence, you familiar with it? People don’t just sit on rooftops at midnight, you know? This may sound unfamiliar to you but I was gonna help someone,” Louis snorts. “That goes with me.”

He doesn’t know if the man’s distracted or he actually allows it, but Louis manages to yank the gun out of his hand with a web, letting it fly over his shoulder the furthest possible. The guy doesn’t even flinch, just reaches under his jacket and draws out another gun.

His grin is wide and he looks a bit insane when he aims again.

"If you take toys to a party, make sure there's enough for everyone." And he shoots again.

Only Louis’ reflexes save him from a wound in his shoulder as he leaps over the bullet. He twists in the air to land on his hands, tucking into a frontflip, before springing off the ground again and landing with his thighs on either shoulder of the man to bring him down. He hears his phone crack a little when his ass hits the ground and he turns on his side, legs framing the man’s neck and ankles hooked.

“I told you to stay down.”

The man huffs, not even fighting the lock on his neck.

“And I told you that I don't wanna hurt you.”

There's a flash of spider-sense before a loud bang. And then quiet.

Louis moves his hand down to where he can feel his thigh pulsing. He brings his fingers back up, swallowing.

Blood.

Whiteness floods his sight as he becomes more aware of the sharp pain radiating from where the bullet has torn into his leg. The echo of the shot reverberates in his ears as he rolls his body over to lie on his back, letting out a short whimper and loosening his grip enough for the man to slip away.

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he finds himself unable to get up and follow his assailant.

He clenches his eyes shut and clutches at his leg, just above the source of pain. Vision blurred, he tries to make out the man’s crouched silhouette. He draws out a hand to grasp onto something, as if it could help, but it’s patted away.

“Attaboy, shh.” Two strong arms wrap around his torso. His body is tugged along the rooftop as he tries to keep the hold on his leg, trying to see through the fog in front of his eyes.

_Come on._

“You breathin’? Awesome. Look. The way I see it, you stay here, I kill that cockface across the street and get my money while you remain out of the way the whole time.” The movement stops and Louis is being dumped against something solid, maybe a chimney, he doesn’t know. The man scoots closer to say a few more words, his voice still calm, contrasting against Louis’ whines and shallow breaths in the quiet of the night. “You don't have a choice, actually." He pokes Louis' head with the muzzle of his gun. "You look terrible if that makes you feel better. Glad you're wearing red pants, almost can't see you bleed. Maybe tone down the colors a tad, it's blowin’ my retinas even in pitch black.”

Louis doesn’t hear anything else, whiteness still fogging his vision.

_Come on, you loser._

He focuses on getting out his phone to send the one message that really matters.

 

**March the 16th, Friday**

 

A blade catches the weak light of afternoon.

Louis watches in horror the scene playing in front of him, the urge to interveenburning every inch of his conscience.

He's army, he has to be. The man. It's in the steady, schooled, swift, deadly grace that he falls with through spaces, shifts, and dodges, and it's only a knife wound, a kick in the knees, and a shot later that Louis realizes he can't move.

His feet are stuck to where he's standing. Legitimately stuck. He fights his own body, he needs to help, he needs to intervene, to help, to do something about it. Someone else will get hurt if he doesn’t, he _has_ to, it is _his_ problem, his responsibility.

He can't. For the love of him, he can't. He can't even look away. He watches as two grown up men fall onto the ground, blood dripping onto the already dirty pavement, groans of pain and frustration filling the air, never shifting it—the air _is_ the man, he creates the mood, it's his territory now.

The echo of the shot rings in Louis' ears.

The man pulls the blade out and wipes the steel on the wounded jerk. He kicks him for good measure, and Louis can't do anything about it.

A gun is sheathed back into the shoulder holster, and Louis is going to scream, he needs his suit. 

“Hey, Lou, it hurts.” There's a tap on Louis’ shoulder, breaking him out of a trance, making him yelp and jerk.

“Wha—” Louis turns, blinking. Harry. “Why are you here?”

“It hurts.”

Louis glances down at the iron grip he's got on the boy. He lets go. Harry catches his wrist.

"You should not be here."

"I'm where you let me be." Harry gives him a smile, too sweet to not be genuine. "Where you got me.”

Louis doesn't notice the military man approach them and he knows that even if he tried he wouldn't be able to run.

He's seen this. Louis' been here before.

He watches as the man's hand wanders up, waits for him to grab that godforsaken cap and place it on Harry's head, to get over with it. It's okay, he's been there. It’s going to be okay.

Time slows down when a hand peppered with tiny scats digs around under a military jacket, curling around the handle of what has only just been tucked away, and the barrel sees the daylight again.

Wait, no, this is not how it went, this is not how it went, this can't go like this, he can't move, he _hastomove_ — 

"You just had to bring him with ya?" The man asks, the gun pointed dead center on Harry's forehead. “You had to let someone get in your way? Keep close enough to get ‘em hurt? So you’re selfish and reckless to boot.”

Louis launches towards Harry, he really does. But his body doesn't obey. Doesn't move an inch.

His eyes tear up the second Harry speaks up.

"It's not your fault."

He lacks air. He can't hear, can't see, can't feel, can't anything. He doesn't want to see, he needs to breathe, please, he _needs_ to breathe.

He jolts out of the dream before the bullet flies through the barrel, no air in his lungs, no hope for an inhale, chest tight, muscles tensed, reality dancing in black dots.

“Smells like spandex and a perfectly patched up gunshot wound in here.”

Louis shoots up, catching a strangled breath. It's short, and shallow, but he can _breathe_ , Jesus Christ. The room swirls in front of him, nothing looking familiar. His hands fly to his face only for the shaky fingers to find out that the mask is still on, and so is the rest of his suit.

“Hey, hey, easy there, tiger,” the voice soothes.

It takes half a second for Louis to remember the previous night. Dazed and bleary in the dim pre-dawn light, he collapses back down into the pillow and looks over to the clock at the nightstand. The lenses buzz as he squints and glares at the glowing red characters on the alarm-clock’s display.

“ _God_. Oh, my God.”

“You've slept for quite a while,” Harry remarks, stepping deeper into the room. “Fourteen hours is certainly impressive.”

Louis makes to tug his hands out from under the duvet, but they turn out to be free. He glances down just to see the bedding discarded and forgotten on the floor. The heater must have still been on when he passed out.

"Sorry about that," he croaks out, covering his eyes with a forearm. "The suit’s heater is on. Must’ve gotten hot."

He feels dizzy and light-headed, but the blinding pain in his left leg seems to be long gone. There's only stiffness and a dull aching left, he can live with that. Limp around for a day and he'll be fine. His mind floods with fragments of memories of the night prior. He got shot, that he remembers. And probably won't forget anytime soon. It’s everything following his encounter with the mercenary that seems to be hazy.

Harry drops his backpack on the chair by his desk, then picks up the sheets from the ground throwing them onto the bed as he sits by Louis’ legs.

"You have a heater in this onesie? Cool."

“Not a onesie.”

“How do you feel?”

 _Like a cow run over me and laughed while running away_.

“Good. Better. Thank you.” Louis tries to smile, but it's inefficient in its result both because the mask is still on, and because he physically can't.

“You're very welcome.” The corners of Harry's lips curl up as he gives Louis a warm look. “Does it still hurt?”

“Nah. I have too great of a nurse.” 

“You scared the hell out of me, you know?” He nudges Louis’ healthy leg with knuckles. “You're lucky my mom had to stay after hours for the third time this week, otherwise we'd be toast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He waves a hand. “I’m happy I could help.”

Louis pulls himself up to a sitting position and rests his back on the wall behind him. He glances down at the bandaged thigh, the few stains of blood on the white gauze, and feels the last scraps of sleep evaporate at the sight. He brings his leg up to his chest to get a closer look at the surprisingly professional looking dressing. He presumes that some of the suit’s protocols must be defective which is what resulted in the hole in a location where the microprocessors are set on the underside.

He looks up and his heart stings with gratitude and affection upon the realisation that this boy, someone who's neither a friend nor family, took care of him. Torn out of his sleep, he took the situation into his own hands, dragged Louis to the bathroom, and patched up the wound, talking him through the pain. He tried to calm him by chatting about how lucky he was that the bullet had passed through cleanly and wasn’t lodged in his thigh because he wouldn’t have been able to pull it out.. He didn’t argue when Louis insisted on keeping both the mask and the suit on, didn't bat an eye when Louis started falling asleep on the edge of the bathtub, his head rested on Harry's shoulder.

Some more scraps of his memory make it clear that the decision to drag himself here was intuitive. Louis knew that a hospital wasn't an option, Jay would have gotten a heart attack, and Niall failed his first aid course spectacularly.

Either way, he's safe and healing now.

“I owe you one,” he says and looks up.

The sight of Harry's smile is like being shot again.

Less than twenty four hours ago, he left Harry on the couch in this very apartment with no word of explanation for his actions and without a glance spared towards him even on his way out. He’s hit with the vivid memory of himself back there curled up by Harry’s side, forcing himself to sit the film out. Not only did he act like an asshole by walking out so abruptly, he's even more of an asshole by staying there in the first place after he’d accidentally played with Harry's feelings.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be Louis now, saying sorry and promising to keep his hands to himself, but he can’t just storm out of the bedroom like he did yesterday. He can’t make the same mistake again.

The blush creeping across Harry's cheeks doesn’t make the matter easier.

“It's nothing, really.”

Louis shakes his head, mostly to get rid of the memories for now. He’ll deal with that later.

“No, seriously, thank you. I woke you up in the middle of the night, and made a mess on your—” He pauses to take a look at the pale floorboards. They're completely clear.

Harry follows his gaze. “Hydrogen peroxide for blood.”

“Clever boy.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something more when the doorbell goes off.

“Your parents?” Louis asks, feeling his stomach do a flip and churn. He's suddenly aware of the current situation and he doesn't really think anyone will be fond of witnessing it. Even he isn't.

“Nopes.” Harry gets up from the bed. “Be right back. Better not move.”

And then he's gone.

Louis shuffles from the bed and stands up, taking it slow, but already regretting ignoring Harry's instruction to stay still. The pain was much less intense than it is now that he's risen to his feet.

“Mother…” He hisses, preventing himself from gripping tightly to the wound, knowing that it will only make the matter worse.

He pulls up his mask slightly to take a few breaths free from the fabric.

To distract himself, he takes in Harry’s bedroom, taking advantage of finally getting to see it. The thought that it's legitimately the first time he's ever been here evaporates, he doesn't care.

The room is a mirror image of Louis', with a similar built-in closet, but less furniture. Instead of wooden door, the closet has white curtains, the walls are colored in pale pink and covered in posters of Queen, Britney Spears, and other less or more famous artists. There's also a collage of what appears to be little human-like figures made up of pride flags cut from paper and drawn on with crayons, all of them glued to cardboard and framed with plexi. The pan and bisexual ones have single heart stickers on their chests. He’s surprised to see even an old _The Proposal_ promo poster. The twin bed is placed on the left of the window, just like Louis' is on the right. There's a desk with neatly stacked notebooks and a gray pencil case, standing in the same place as his, but turned with its front towards the window. Everything is neat and soft despite the chaos of the variety of every piece of anything, and Louis is so here for that, he couldn't imagine a different room for someone like Harry.

The craziness comes in the shape of the full length plywood board attached to the wall at the foot of the bed, with rows of knives creating two straight parallel lines crossing each other. The obvious precision they were thrown with sparks some curiosity. While the board may not obviously scream ‘Harry’ it still manages to somehow fit the boy.

It’s nice to see how multifaceted Harry is. Knife throwing would never be the first hobby anyone would pick for this outgoing, kind-hearted kid. Even with the clear evidence in front of him Louis still finds it a little hard to believe, and he even thinks he'd like to see the board being put into use. Preferably by Harry.

He limps towards a bookcase that’s laden with books, some thick and big, some thin and not necessarily made for adults or even teenagers. Some of them he’s never heard about. Unlike Louis’ collection, this one doesn’t contain many dense scientific volumes; instead, there’s a collection of novels, martial arts books, several volumes of _Winnie-The-Pooh_ , and a dog-eared copy of Andersen’s _Fairy Tales and Stories_. Louis feels the hint of a  smile trying to creep across his lips at the sight.

On the side of the bookcase, he discovers an impressive amount of drawings. Colorful images that show animals and figures done in a cross between kawaii and comic style, letters, even some sweet graffiti. Some of them are more detailed, more effort must have been put into them, and Louis starts wondering how Harry had the time to complete over ten drawings there after less than a handful of weeks of living in his new room.

The shelf hanging on the right is left-to-right stacked with music. Louis recognizes some of the artists, some of them don't even sound familiar. Harry's musical taste seems similar to Louis’, as in—he likes what he likes. There's Rihanna, Shawn Mendes, Queen, AC/DC, Frank Sinatra, Shania Twain, Britney Spears, Presley, The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and—surprise, surprise—Ariana Grande.

With a warm, tiniest smile, Louis makes it to the window, and pulls out his phone.

He winces at the sight of another zigzag on the screen and smudged blood. He wipes the stains off as much as possible with his dried-blood dirty glove and unlocks the phone. A tap on the notification from Jay opens the conversation. He looks at the message he sent at midnight in the middle of crawling up to his feet: 'sleepover at harrys’. He never checked for a response but now some weight evaporates from his chest as he sees the winking emoji and the following 'buy milk on your way back?’, and for a second his relief means he doesn’t even feel the pain. He's just grateful that he managed to not make Jay worry.

Hearing Harry’s steps coming closer, he quickly slips the phone back into the pocket and pulls down his mask, allowing it to adjust to the rest of the suit before turning in the direction of the door.

He can smell the pizza before Harry storms into the room, and his stomach immediately rumbles in response. The realization that he hasn’t had anything since yesterday afternoon in this very apartment throws his off his groove for a second and he has to think and focus to breathe again.

“I hope you like pizza with chicken because I’m not gonna hear about eating it on my own,” says Harry, closing the door with his foot. “Sit down, webhead, I may not be a doctor here but it's easy to see that its hurting to walk. Nobody wants to watch you be in pain, and by nobody I mean me.”

Louis obliges and they both plop down on the bed at the same time. While Louis makes himself comfortable against the wall, Harry sits criss cross at the other end of the bed and places the box of pizza between them.

“It pains me to say it, but I actually can’t eat it with you,” Louis informs him. He’s grateful that his neurons work well enough to play this out logically.

Harry frowns in confusion. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’d have to lift my mask, and I can’t have you hear my voice,” Louis explains.

“I already hear your voice.”

“Voice modulator. The high-tech suit works magic. I could be your neighbor, and you would know my voice, and that just wouldn’t do, Harry. There’s a reason why I wear this mask.”

Reluctantly, Harry nods. Even though he’s pouting there doesn’t seem to be any real offense taken.

“As you wish. I’ll leave you half, though, you must be hungry. Can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why the mask?”

“Ugly,” Louis answers quickly.

Harry snorts, opening the box.

“For real, though. We’ve got quite a few heroes in New York, and none of them hides. You’ve got Tony Stark, the living legend Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, and so on, so on, so on.” He counts on his fingers. “And then there’s you. Masked menace, as _Bugle_ likes to call you. I don’t get it. Why?”

Louis gives it some thought, trying to phrase things in a way that will make himself understood.

“Would you like a crowd of reporters outside your door every day?”

Harry frowns over a slice of pizza. “But Tony S—”

“He’s got money. And paparazzi were commonplace for him before he was Iron Man, come on. If he doesn’t want anyone to be bothered, he can sort that out, and the Avengers are rarely photographed. Then there’s me.” He crosses his arms against his chest, watching Harry take a bite. “I do my thing, but I work solo. If I was unmasked, I’d be an easy target. I wouldn’t have a life. And I very much like my life. I go to school, I have friends, family. I want to go to college without the fear that when I leave Queens, some future villain will go after any of the people closest to me. I want to have a job, a degree. Spider-Man is a part of me, but we can never be one. I don’t want him to be associated with my person. I’m yet to face a superhuman nemesis, but there will come a time when Spider-Man will have to confront someone whose morality lies on the other side of the fence, someone maybe stronger. And when it happens, I want it to remain Spider-Man’s business.”

Harry swallows and nods. He doesn’t mock, and doesn’t say anything in response to that, digesting the words.

“And you’re ugly,” he adds after a while.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Hideous. You don’t wanna know and I don't want to see your breakfast out of its glory.”

“We’re straight. No more sad faces, it’s my turn to talk.”

As far as his guilt and inner battle go, Louis begins to feel pretty content with just sitting there and listening to Harry’s rambling which is only disrupted when he takes a bite of pizza. He hopes that the lenses movement in response to his eyes is enough to convey to Harry that he is listening because he can’t bring himself laugh.

The more time passes in the room, the clearer it is that it’s a physical impossibility for Louis to let out a chuckle that doesn’t sound like a throttled frog.

Three slices of pizza and the school day retold through several anecdotes later, Harry wipes his hands into a tissue grabbed from the box placed on the nightstand. 

“You probably don’t even care, why am I bothering?” He laughs, licking his lips. He looks very young like this, hair tousled and barely held by the headscarf, an oversized, baby blue sweater pooling around his figure, and joyful eyes. “A hero like you listening about biology classes and a girl who didn’t know better than trying to get her abusive boyfriend back, huh?”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but I’m just like you.” Louis pulls one leg to his chest and wraps his arms around it, putting his chin on the knee. “I have a normal life when I'm not doing this. Well, maybe not normal, but I have a life. School, family, all that circus.”

“Why on Earth would you go to school if you can do this spider-stuff?”

“I like school,” Louis admits.

“Nerd.”

“If I had a nickel for every time someone called me this. And I like listening to your stories. I'm just a guy who puts on a suit sometimes, you know?”

“I suppose you have to do something when you’re not sporting the long johns.” Harry gives him a warm, and surprisingly understanding look. “Might as well be reading physics books to sleep.”

“I’m not like a hero- _hero_ ,” Louis adds. “Seriously, who am I compared to the Avengers? Three months ago I wouldn’t have even considered scaling Oscorp Tower because it was too high. I almost bled out today because I allowed someone to make me lose my focus. I still don’t know any real fighting style, and I still get scared when someone points a gun at me. That’s not what a hero is.”

Harry rolls the tissue into a ball and throws it into the trash can under his desk without missing a beat. Then he rubs his hands and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the pizza box in front of him.

“See, as you talk to people you realize that nobody ever talks about the men behind the masks.” He lifts his head to give Louis a tiny smile, but then glances away again. “For some time I was one of those people, yeah? And that started bugging me.” He takes a short breath. “You say… You say you’re not a hero, but if it wasn’t for you, two days ago over forty people would have died in that fire. If you weren’t there to stop that bank robbery on Sunday, the owner would have lost everything including his wife. You’re anonymous, never asking for a prize. Never complaining. Always there when needed.”

“Not exactly _always_ —”

“So I say, why is it that nobody ever talks about how beautiful the person under the mask has to be? You know, how good they are to selflessly help people in need. It takes some balls to jump into a building that’s gone up in flames, to prevent robbery, or stop a speeding car with their bare hands. And it's not the costume that does it, it's the person under it. Then as you go on with those thoughts, you realize that Spider-Man is really just a person. Just a neighbor, a guy from New York. Do they like hot dogs? What are their hobbies? Do they even sleep? Are they a student or do they have a job? Do they have a sister or a brother? What's their favourite color?”

He pauses to maintain eye contact with Louis, or at least try to as much as you can with the mask. Louis doesn’t shy away from it this time, only tilts his head a little.

“You think you’re not a hero because you’re not Captain America. But being a hero doesn’t always mean fighting aliens or rescuing the president.” He straightens up and drifts his eyes aside. “It might not seem like a big deal to you, but when I think about what kinda guy does things like that, what kinda guy puts it upon himself to jump into a onesie and save people from bad things just because it’s the right thing to do? That's a hero. That's what hero is. You don’t have a choice here, Webs.” He looks back up, smiling again. “You’re my hero in your selflessness and the way you take care of the things that the usual so called heroes don’t even spare a glance at.”

It feels like he’s talking to a new person as he listens to Harry. He’s no longer seeing him as the kind, attractive guy who can fit into any crowd, cracking his lame jokes and talking about whatever random thought comes into his head. Louis can’t help but feel that maybe even if he fails at being Louis Tomlinson, he still does quite a good job as Spider-Man.

“You called me Webs,” he says after a few seconds of silence.

Harry snorts. “Is that all you took away from the pep talk? Because that was pretty much a verbal essay, even for me. You’re lucky I felt like shifting into my third gear of talking this evening, otherwise I’d still be on my second sentence right now.”

“You called me Webs. Nobody calls me Webs.”

“Clearly, you need more friends.” Harry reaches for another slice of pizza. “Anyhoo, that was boring of me. Good thing I didn’t get political. However, what isn’t boring, I forgot to tell ya, there's this _insane_ car parked outside our building. I think it was an Audi, a shiny and fancy one...”

Every fragment of content and peace that Louis’ managed to store inside his chest evaporates now as he digests Harry's words. He feels a slight sting of sadness and guilt in his chest, and a bit of fear because unlike Harry, Louis knows exactly what a shiny Audi outside of the building means.

“I have to go,” he says, cutting Harry off. He uses the kindest tone he can muster up, but the words still cause an awkward, three second long silence.

Harry finally blinks and nods.

“I’m really sorry,” Louis adds, scrambling out of the bed. “Someone’s waiting for me, and it’s someone quite important.”

“Girlfriend?” Harry asks, grinning. He follows suit and gets up, leaving the half eaten pizza slice in the box.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Louis stretches his arms over his head, then cracks his fingers. “Let’s save questions for another time. I promised you an interview, so I suggest we set a time for it.”

“Now we’re talking.” Harry observes him check on the bandages, and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What about tomorrow morning for the date?”

“What about I just swing by whenever?”

“You’re hard to negotiate with.”

“I’m a busy man.”

Louis looks at him from where he’s fiddling with a web-shooter. He changes the almost empty cartridge for a new one automatically, his eyes not leaving Harry.

“We’re not calling it a date.”

“Interview sounds so formal,” Harry explains. “It’ll be just two of us talking. I don’t want this to sound like an interrogation or something.”

“Just two bros hanging out, I like it.” Louis gives him a shaky smile, and then he realizes that Harry can't see it. “Time for me to go.”

Harry only nods in response and joins him on the short walk towards the window. He slides it open for Louis to get on the windowsill, and that's it.

Louis is gone without a second glance, suppressing a hiss of pain as he springs off into one of the warmer days of March, already aware of the choice he has to make soon.

Do the right thing, even if it will hurt like hell. Doing the right thing is not always convenient. 

He has to do something since, apparently, all of his common sense flew straight out the window and Louis Tomlinson decided to do a lot of stupid shit while it was gone.

 

 

After fitting into clothes from one of three hiding spots on Queens Boulevard he’s got going (without wasting time on losing the suit), hissing out a number of very not PG-13 words and stashing the mask into the pocket of his hoodie, Louis is ready to walk out on the streets. Although ‘walk’ is not the word he would use to describe his attempts to not limp while trying to look like he hasn’t just had the most screwed up twenty four hours since his uncle died.

He's sure as hell pulling off that high-on-mouthwash look.

He clicks the web-shooters’ triggers back into bracelets and tugs the sleeves down, covering his gloved hands as well. For once grateful for the New York never giving a damn about weird individuals rolling down the street, he makes it first to his block, then to the elevator, and finally to the apartment where it turns out that the world would crumble into pieces if it didn’t pull a cliché déjà vu.

“Oh, Mister Tomlinson.” Tony Stark turns in his seat to take a look as Louis closes the door.

He’s wearing a suit, looking like he’s just gotten back from a business meeting. His hair and goatee are perfectly cut and he looks like he had some sleep.The only thing breaking the facade of being totally fine is the stern gaze he fixes Louis with as soon as they make eye contact.

By déjà vu Louis means the unescapable note he makes at the sight of the man sitting in the exact same spot as when he came to offer Louis his mentorship. To make the matter funnier, he’s actually eating a piece of cake and Jay is nothing short of pleased by the company. That scene feels even more surreal when put in contrast to what Louis has gone through in the past twenty four hours.

Louis decides that his life has officially gone bananas.

“Mister Stark.” He nods, greeting the man as he toes off his shoes. “Hi, Jay.”

He tugs the sleeves even lower, making sweater paws to cover the gloves of the suit completely, and only then he sluggishly steps into the living room, praying for his face to not show how much the wound hurts under the tight jeans. He just had to bundle up the worst hoodie with worst jeans as his back-up civvies.

“Did you buy milk?” Jay looks at him over Tony's back.

Louis sends her an apologizing look. “No, I'm sorry, I forgot. I'll take a quick shower and I'll go for it, okay?”

“We need to have a word,” Tony interrupts, turning towards Jay as the gentleman he is, the stern expression disappearing in a second. “I'm sorry again, ma'am, that I didn't call beforehand, I just have to talk something through with Louis. It will be brief, and then he'll have the day off, as promised. As many days as he needs.”

As Jay examines Louis head to toe, he’s suddenly acutely aware of the state of his appearance.

His hair looks like New York after the battle with aliens, and requires at least three washes. He’s wearing a hoodie that is both lacking strings and has several holes in it, and his face must be a mess due to the lack of caffeine and the amount of times he tripped on his way to Harry’s place after being shot. Not to mention the high likelihood that he’s got glazed eyes with bags underneath like a cherry on top of a really crappy cake.

He tries to make up for the impression with a smile, but his lips don’t seem to work this way anymore. Let’s spin the wheel of excuses, then.

“Mind if I take that quick shower first?” He hugs himself protectively. “Niall and Harry made me go to the skatepark, and then we played soccer, and I’m disgustingly sweaty.”

A rumble of thunder cuts through the air, ringing in Louis’ ear. A crescendo of raindrops hitting the windows begins as the weather breaks down, and on his way to his room Louis feels like he just doesn’t have much in him to care whether it’s sunny or rainy outside. Everything is starting to suck.

 

 

He stares at himself for what feels like the first time in a month. Where recently he's been only throwing empty glances at his reflection in order to see if his hair isn't sticking out or there's no coffee stains above his upper lip, he's now occupied with eyeing every inch of his body he can see in the waist-length mirror over the sink.

The dark circles under his eyes aren't as alarming as they would be if he didn't have his healing factor. Still, they look downright tragic and unnatural, a clear sign of someone who isn’t getting much sleep or nutrition. He never really paid attention to the pallor of his skin, but now that it's put in contrast to the dark circles and the redness on his thigh, the whiteness of it stands out more than the gunshot wound. The shadows cast underneath his cheekbones are either darker and set deeper or it's just the light—where before they looked like drawn with a sharpie, now it's like someone engraved thick, long lines on his face.

“You're so dramatic,” he sighs at himself.

He twists his head and turns to look over his shoulder at his back. There's no scratch left after the brawl. Just like the front, the back shows more bone than would be considered healthy, even if it's under some well-cut and defined muscles. For a second the view makes his memory of lifting a truck doubtful in veracity of it.

He raises a hand to prod at the collarbones and sternum, then shoulder and elbow, his mind offhandedly naming the particular bones in latin. He almost smiles at what Niall likes to call his default nerd mode, mostly because it's good to have something stable in the cluster of past few weeks. 

It's when the tiniest smile disappears from his lips that he realizes he doesn't really feel anything but a slight stinging pain in the wounded leg.

He turns from his reflection, puts on the unironed sweats and a shirt from the shelf above the washing machine, and steps out of the bathroom, carrying a towel bundled around the bloody bandage he'll throw out when his aunt is out and the suit he has to wash later. It's water and sweatproof, but the blood stains won't come off without using the washing machine 

“What were you _thinking_?”

Louis looks up from the ground to find Tony standing in the middle of his room. For a second there he’s about to call out the violation for his privacy, but then again, the man is one of two people to know his biggest secret, so he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

Rubbing his damp hair with a towel and grabbing the suit with the other hand, he closes the door with his feet and hisses. Despite the obvious stinging, he keeps on forgetting he’s wounded. He tucks the hem of his shirt behind the waistline of the sweats and throws the towel across his shoulders.

“I'm thinking I need coffee, and you're angry about something."

He’s not entirely wrong. Tony looks like he’s barely holding it together, about to burst out and start shooting lasers out of his eyes. His hands are tucked deep in the pockets of his pants but the fingers are visibly twitching, his breaths are short, and Louis can’t decide whether the man is painfully worried or sternly angry.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t feel like caring. He doesn’t feel anything, to be completely honest.

“ _Angry_ about something?” Tony hisses when Louis walks up to his desk. “Good God, you are injured. You were _shot_. Why didn’t you call me?”

Louis plops down on the chair, spreading his legs and taking a deep breath. He looks back at the man, fiddling with the suit.

“Am I obliged to do so?” He forces himself to sound casual, but the hoarseness and guilt weaken his attempt. “Didn’t see that in a contract. Oh, wait! There was no contract. Good luck out there, kid!” he mimics Tony’s mentor-ish voice. “Lay low! Don’t do anything stupid!” he snickers. “As if that was possible. My name’s on the top of the synonyms for stupid.”

Tony sighs and sits on the bottom bunk, rubbing his hands against his thighs.

“Don't get sassy with me, Tomlinson.” He probably aims for a stern tone but the care is too obvious for him to cover it with anything. “What's gotten into you?”

“Caffeine deprivation, I’ve—” Louis is cut off by the sight of a very familiar rainbow cup standing on the desk. One that he definitely didn't bring to the room. He's hit with the smell, and for two seconds he wonders how the hell he didn't notice it as soon as he entered the room. Then he remembers about his vocal cords. “Is this hot chocolate?”

“Not poisoned.”

Louis puts the suit on his lap and reaches for the cup, his eyes fixing on Tony.

“Did you just have a hot chocolate made for me?”

“Of course not. I _made_ a hot chocolate for you.”

“As in with your own hand? And Jay let you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s cut to the crux of the matter.” Tony leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and fixes his gaze at Louis. “I understand that the tracker’s microprocessor was damaged but why didn’t you call me?”

Louis takes another sip, focusing on the warmth in his chest and belly. He doesn’t know what he feels at this moment, his thoughts as mixed as the colors of his PE shirt after he washed it with the rainbow hoodie. He definitely knows better than going pissy on Tony Stark.

“Because I was shot. I was led by intuition, not by logic. I knew where I had to go, I knew who would care.”

Tony bites on his lower lip, clearly trying to contain himself, and it appears to work because suddenly he’s calm. Or seems to be calm. He breathes in and out a lungful, fiddling with his fingers. His head drops, his eyes looking at nothing in particular.

“Look. I know that you’d been playing this game alone for quite some time before we met. That you’d had nobody to talk to, nobody to help you out, to watch out for you.” He curls the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist. “It was a problem that needed fixing, and I was there to do that. I felt obliged to do so. Not because you were a kid who wanted to be something he wasn’t, but because he wanted to be something he _was_ but couldn’t quite get there on his own.”

“I was doing fine,” Louis cuts in.

“If by fine you mean swinging around in a homemade excuse of a onesie with nobody to know what you were getting yourself into, then sure, you were just about fine.” Tony’s mouth twitches.

“I can take care of myself.”

“What about the rest of us, huh? We’re a part of your world, Louis, you get cut and it’s _us_ that your blood drips onto.”

“I can _look after myself_ ,” Louis repeats slower, sterner.

“Yes, you proved it _very well_ last night!” Tony bursts out. He scoffs, shakes his head, checking himself, and lowers his voice. “Good job. Very impressive. I really feel like you're fully capable of looking after yourself. Textbook example, really. Want an award for that? A medal? Do you want standing ovations?”

Louis tightens his grip on the cup, running away with his gaze. He can’t bring himself to admit that Tony is right, that he needed someone to patch up the wound, that he actually was in a dire need of another person to take care of him.

“It was an exception,” he mutters.

“Luck. You got _lucky_ this time. What if it happens again? Why didn’t you just call me? Why did you end up in some random person’s room? Do you feel like you can’t trust me?” Tony visibly tries to appear strong and very much adult-like, but there’s a strain in his voice that shows how actually not fine he is with the whole situation, and how little he knows about talking to teenagers. “Do you feel like I don’t care?”

“It was my friend. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I thought we’re well past that, kid. I worry about you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re my responsibility, and if something happens to you, that’s on me. That’s on me, you understand?” He sounds wounded and disappointed. “You’ve been kicking some ass, Tomlinson, I admit that, but there’s a line I wanted you not to cross.”

“I don’t need your lecture.”

“Apparently you do.” Tony’s voice breaks. He swallows and sighs. “I asked you to not do anything stupid. I asked because I wanted you not to be like me. Not careless and irresponsible. And now you got seriously wounded and you didn’t even choose to go to the hospital, you just picked your friend to play nurse. Do you hear how ridiculous it is? How dangerous? What if that friend wasn’t capable of patching you up? What about infections? Do you even realize that there are people actually caring for you, Louis? Who want you healthy and alive?”

For a long moment, Louis just stares at him. There’s a split second where Louis is convinced that Tony is about to explode but that doesn’t happen, so they get stuck in uncomfortable silence.

Louis feels tears starting to prickle behind his eyelids, so he forces himself to take another sip of the chocolate in lieu of distraction. He’s fully aware that Tony is right, but the mountain of denial in him just can’t make the words match up with what he’s told himself, which results in feeling empty from his head to toe. He feels… hollowed out.

“What you do is not easy,” Tony adds now calmer. “Your patrols have been getting longer which led to me checking on your school grades, but they appear not to have slipped. Which is great, I'm proud of you, kid. But you try to be everywhere at once, and I worry, believe me, I really do. I know about the police scanner you made, I know about the Norman Osborn research, and it’s fine by me, the guy’s dead, you do you, whatever it is. You want to do your own thing, that’s alright, and I think—”

Louis looks up. “You see me walking in your shoes?” 

“No, but—”

“Then don't try to walk in mine.” He swallows the tears in his throat. “You don't know a damn thing about what I'm feeling, Mister Stark, you never will. Quit making it look like you—”

“I just don’t want you to trip and fall, Louis. I don’t want to watch you fall, that's it.”

Louis blinks. He hears what Tony’s saying, but the sentences translate into nothingness when passing his ears. It’s a strange state of mind, and he hates it. He actually can’t even make himself hate this because the only thing he feels is the burnt tongue and stinging thigh.

Tony stands up from the bed, perhaps understanding that he won’t get an answer to his words anytime soon. His gaze meets with Louis’ one more time, and Louis realises that he’s been avoiding it and hasn’t even noticed. The man’s expression is unreadable except for the clear worry in the way his brow is furrowed 

“Next time something like this happens, please, _please_ call me. I want you to know I’m not here to only give you toys.” He walks up to the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “My father, he... He was a pile of shit. Far from a role model. I never heard him say he cared about me. I never saw him simply _be_ there for me. I'm... I'm just trying to not be him, alright? I would like you to allow me to be someone better than him. That is, certainly, I’m not your father—”

“Then maybe stop trying to act like one,” Louis snaps without thinking.

Tony looks close to crushing the doorknob in his hand. Still, Louis says nothing else until the point where the man’s stepping out of the room, making him stop in his tracks.

“I have a father. And it's not you.”

Tony nods. Everything in Louis is screaming to fix this. He doesn't take a single letter back.

“FRIDAY will know what to do with the suit. Your absence was taken care of. Take care, kid.”

 

 

Jay, 6:44 PM

overtime. call if you need anything

 

6:45 PM

ok, love you.

 

 

It's cold when they step out of the train. The city that never sleeps leaves darkness only for narrow alleys and the spaces far above the highest buildings, so it's among few people and street lights that they walk out of the station and along Queens Boulevard, steps steady, Louis' measured and pained.

They're quiet. While this isn’t unusual for Louis, as far as his self talks go, it's definitely something Harry doesn’t usually do. For a guy who can talk in normal speed only when he wants to—and that means quite often—he doesn't come across as a quiet persona. Louis' learned this much, at least, after the couple of weeks of knowing each other.

He's used to Harry's voice and the warmth of his touch when the boy grabs his wrist to tug him along, he's become fond of the way Harry seems to be always be humming a song. It's sometimes barely audible, but Louis has no hardship with distinguishing the notes and recognizing the tune from time to time.

He's painfully aware of what happened yesterday, what happened at night, and what happened before Harry's text about how it stopped raining and they should take a train to go for the usual at Taco Bell. Given that Louis has less brain than heart, he agreed, and that's how they ended up spending the past hour in almost complete silence.

A wave of guilt and sadness washes over him at the vivid memory of yesterday afternoon. His heart misses a beat, dejected, but he carries on. He has to, life has not ended yet. Especially that with every second he's reminded of what he should do today, and that doesn't make things any better.

They make it into the elevator at Parker Towers where they slump onto opposite walls. The warmth of the interior of the building makes them shiver away the remnants of the cold air of the late evening in freaking March as they pull off their gloves.

Before long, they’re at Louis’ apartment, where they shed their outerwear. Harry immediately snuggles into the corner of the couch, and Louis, after some padding around in the kitchen, joins him, wordlessly handing him a cup of steaming tea. Harry nods and mouths a thank you.

"You're quiet," Louis points out, leaning back and placing his mug between his crossed legs.

"Happens to the best of us." Harry shrugs. He doesn’t sound sad, but there's definitely something off in his voice.

Louis has never felt more like a dickhead. He’s barely comprehending the past twenty four hours. His leg doesn’t hurt as much anymore, enough for him to not limp visibly, but the stinging is still there. His brain is overloaded with all the thoughts piling up since yesterday afternoon that he really doesn’t want to give any consideration. He feels hollow, heavy with the weight of the yet unspoken, weighing on his conscience words and an unsolved problem.

“I like it when you're quiet,” he admits, trying to fill the silence. “And I like it when you talk. I like hearing you talk. Even if it's trash or something borderline crude.”

Harry chuckles. "You might be the first person to actually enjoy me talking. Or you're just very convincing. Even my mom's done with me sometimes. And by that I mean she once nearly cried after I'd told her like forty knock-knock jokes in a row.”

Louis can't fight off the half grin in response, even if his heart isn't fully in it. He takes a sip of his coffee. It occurs to him that the TV isn’t on, and neither of them have reached for the remote yet.

“I think I like listening to you ‘cause I'm not fond of being alone with my thoughts. I have thoughts overload, like, ninety percent of the time.”

“Did you know you're rumoured to hear voices?”

Louis would laugh at that, but he still isn’t physically capable of it, so he snorts instead. "Really? It’s surprising. I mean, not that surprising. I do talk to myself, after all.”

“Most of us do. Only a handful dare to do it in public." Harry rub his nose. "In all honesty, I think it’s jealousy ‘cause that rumor is very much attached to people whining about your IQ.”

"People think I cheated on those tests, so there's that. Even I do sometimes. The teachers do, too."

"You're Tony Stark's only intern. You won every championship they sent you to, and when you didn't, it was obvious you lost some first places on purpose. You actually know how Stark’s workshop works, and you worked on the Spider-Man gear. I don’t think the rumor about your IQ is far from truth."

Louis grimaces. “That number looks surreal, no wonder people have doubts.”

“Define surreal.” Harry takes a sip of his tea and waves a hand at nothing in particular. ”There's a god from another planet visiting us like we're a zoo, there's a billionaire flying in a suit of armour, a hundred-year-old soldier looking like America's Next Top Model, a witch, some super spies, and underground corporations looking forward to turn the planet into an ashtray. Talk about surreal when your buddy Webs paid me a visit last night with a gunshot wound in his leg."

"Did he, now?" Louis suddenly regrets even starting a conversation. He hates talking about himself in third person.

Despite the fact that he should act at least surprised or be worried about Harry connecting some dots and discovering his secret, he finds himself not missing a beat as he glances aside at the window, the urge to suit up and patrol the streets crawling under his skin. He's never been so lost in his own wants and thoughts, at the same time feeling like he's nothing but a black hole. It's odd and worrying.

"Yep." Harry nods. "He'd gotten shot and came at mine. Somehow. Said somethin’ about Brooklyn and ‘wait for the flash’, but passed almost as soon as he fell into bed. He was really incoherent in his babbling, but what mattered was that the gunshot wasn't fatal and the bullet went through.”

“So you just chilled out and patched up a gunshot wound?” Louis hears himself sound like he's in disbelief despite the fact that it's literally him sitting there with a bandage under his jeans.

“Dad was army, I told you. He liked drunken bar brawls, too.” Harry taking another sip. “You learn some stuff when your old man comes back home with a cut across his temple or gunshot wounds.”

Louis swallows. “He's lucky he found you, then.”

“He should've gone to hospital.”

“He says he doesn't trust people in hospitals,” Louis points out truthfully. “Secret identity and all that. They take fingerprints and blood.”

“Why didn't he come to you, then? He's known you for a bit now.”

Harry turn his head and Louis refrains from returning the look. Instead, he swallows and leans his head back again.

“Maybe he likes you more than me.” He shrugs. It's quite silly how true that statement is. “I hope he won't give up on me entirely.”

“Last time I hoped for something I ended up attending a funeral. So careful with that.”

It seems to be the end of the conversation for now. They lapse into silence, and Louis finds himself occupied with listening to Harry’s heartbeat, now that he has the chance.

Before they devolve into idle Sims on a couch with nothing playing in the background, they manage to sip their drinks down and Louis’ the first one to get up. Harry follows, and suddenly the air seems to thicken a foreign way. In a _scary_ way. It's the moment Louis’ been trying to postpone or maybe even avoid all together.

He leans against the cupboard with his hip bones as he stands by the sink to deal with the dishes, body weight put more on his right leg. Harry stands by his side, arms crossed against his chest, leaned against the cupboard with his front towards the living room but eyes clearly following Louis’ movements.

Louis is slower with the sponge than usual, prolonging the words he wants to say. Harry seems to know exactly what is going on, even if he is projecting an oblivious air.

Louis hates himself already.

When he reaches the point of drying his hands on the towel, he’s hit with a want to sugarcoat what’s coming, but he quickly realizes that this urge is pointless. No amount of candy-coating will change the outcome.

To make matters worse, he’s reminded of how well he and Harry fit the moment he turns away from the sink and Harry’s there to move with him so they end up facing each other. His eyes fall to the boy's lips, then back up, and he swallows.

“I have to tell you something,” he rushes his words before Harry has a chance to let out a single sound.

Harry blinks and nods. “That you're gay? I kinda figured out after we…” he trails off, pointing at himself and then at Louis.

“What—No, that's not…”

“Okay, I'm all ears. Not interrupting anymore. Go.”

Louis opens his mouth to say what has to be said, but nothing comes out. His breath suffocates the words, leaving him fighting for a proper inhale. There are some tears already pricking behind his eyelids, but they quickly disappear into the hollowness he’s carried ever since yesterday.

He spares an off-hand second to think that he must look really bad. Lifeless, grey, sleep deprived. He still hasn't cut his hair. He doesn't even know if his heart is beating, if his hands are shaking, and he frankly doesn't care.

He mirrors the nod. One, two, three times. “Okay.”

“So?” Harry urges.

“I’m...” He looks up. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this properly. He’s immediately met with Harry’s controlled gaze. It’s more than a little disarming. “I can’t—I just want you to… I’m…”

“Louis—”

“No _nononono_ , listen to me.” Louis waves a hand and darts his gaze away again. “I have to tell you something.”

“Yes, I know. I'm listening.” A smile tugs on the corners of Harry’s lips. _Shit_.

“It's very important. To me. And I need you—I can't... God, this is so hard.”

Harry breathes out a chuckle “You've got no idea.”

“The thing is… The thing is, I, uh. I just… I want...”

He looks back at Harry. Takes his bittersweet time.

Examines the face covered in dimness—they didn't even turn the lights on. He draws his eyes from the imperfect way his hair curls, the few strands poking out from the scarf, through the kind, warm eyes, fixed on Louis in hope and confusion, to the wrapped in an oversized hoodie frame. He’s hit by a wave of memories of Harry’s body flush against his, Harry’s hands on him, Harry’s lips against his, Harry’s voice singing along to movies’ soundtracks, Harry’s eyes sparkling with joy, Harry, Harry, Harry. Soft, sweet, loving, and everything that Louis can't have. 

Can’t afford.

He hears himself choke on half a sob before even realizing that a few tears have already slid down his cheeks. There's so much to say, so much to explain.

_I was wrong to become your friend. I put you in danger. I was selfish. I may not be able to change the past, but what I can do is stop what I started._

What comes out is a rough, “I need you to go.”

Harry’s face falls a little, the smile still there, still in one corner of his mouth.

“Like, you mean you need some me time?”

Louis’ head does a weird jerky thing when he tries to shake it in disagreement, his spine high-strung and nerves appearing to be malfunctioning.

Painful silence falls into the room. A couple of seconds draw the comprehension on Harry, his eyes scanning Louis’ face like it's the most important task in his life. The softness in his eyes slowly surges into surprise, disbelief, and finally, it all disappears. 

He stares at Louis for a far-out-of-the-comfort-zone amount of time, making Louis wanting to be the one to take off. He opens his mouth one time, then another, and once more, until after a few agonizing moments he finally speaks up in the most empty voice Louis’ ever heard, and it shatters him from the inside. 

“You don't mean it, you know.”

Louis swallows the tears that threaten to come out and wipes off the ones that almost dried out on his heated cheeks. He needs his mask, damn it.

“Harry,” he tries for sounding stern and relentless, but what comes out is more of an angry pleading.

“Okay, help me understand.” Harry brings his hands up but ends up apparently not knowing why he did this, so he crosses his arms against his chest instead. “I don’t understand, what’s the problem? We’re fine, right? We—”

“ _Harry_. Please, leave.”

“Come on, you don't mean it. Something's eating away at you, and you're—Just tell me what it is and we could get past it together, I could help.”

“No.”

“So there _is_ something wrong.” Harry pauses. “And you don't want me to go.”

“It doesn't matter what I want.”

“Louis—”

“Harry.” _Please. Don’t make it harder._

Their eyes meet again, Louis’ now glazed and furious, and Harry’s dry and confused.

Louis expects him to shout, to argue, to say something that would hurt Louis as much as Louis has hurt him. He follows every twitch on Harry’s face, forcing himself to not reach out and say sorry, trying to brace himself for any kind of attack. It never comes.

When Harry’s demeanor shifts from defensive into casual, hands wandering to the pockets of his jeans, chin up, and shoulders back, Louis knows he succeeded. And it doesn’t feel like a win in the slightest.

“Fine.”

It’s _not_ fine. It’s everything _but_ fine.

“Fine,” Louis echoes. “Good.”

“I’ll go, then.”

“Good. Yeah.”

Louis doesn’t know how Harry makes it to the door, and he probably wouldn’t have noticed him walking out of the apartment if it wasn’t for the knock at the door.

He sniffles, wipes all the fluids aff his face with a sleeve, and makes himself put step after step, not sparing a glance at Harry fumbling with his shoes in his respectful space several feet away from the door.

He must be looking horrible because the expression of joy on Mister Jones’—Mitch’s, as he insists—face he’s greeted by as the door opens quickly turns into concern.

“You alright, kid?” He asks, frowning.

Louis swallows and nods, waving his shaking hand.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course. Obviously. What’s up?”

“Are you sure? You don’t look so good.”

No. “I’m fine, yeah, I’m fine, what's the matter?”

“We're going out to the movies, and we thought you'd have some time on your hands to take care of the youngies.” Mitch frowns, looking behind Louis. “But if you're busy—”

“No,” Louis cuts him, not sparing a glance at Harry. “We were, uhm… We were watching—He's actually leaving now. I'm perfectly free for a couple of hours and I kinda miss Ernest and Doris. At yours or mine?”

“It’s all the same for us.”

Louis is about to answer when Harry literally pushes his way out of the apartment with no word other than a polite 'sorry’ thrown towards nobody in particular.

“I’ll be at yours in a minute, then.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind? Is everything fine?”

He watches Harry as he reaches the stairs in the middle of the hall, and it's not until he looks back at startled Mitch when a wave of fresh tears gathers up behind his eyelids.

“Yeah. All’s just fine.”

 

 _“Betty Brant, CBS News, live here at a breaking news situation at the Osborn Mansion. For those just tuning in, the Osborn Mansion has been damaged in what appears to be a brutal intrusion. The body of widowed Emily Lyman has just been found and transported from the scene. The police and firemen have managed to put out the fire caused by the bombs, and are currently searching for the daughter of Emily Lyman, the sole heir of the Oscorp corporate empire. It is not known if the girl was in the house during the attack..._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, don't kill me.  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [(you can find me on tumblr)](https://winston-wilson.tumblr.com)


	3. end of the rope

 

**March the 16/17th, Friday/Saturday**

 

It takes some fiddling with his senses and a pinch of focus until he hears the shower turn on and his half awake dick reminds him where he is and what the _hell_ he's doing. He's about to hump his sheets at the thought of Harry Styles undressing a countable but unnecessary number of feet away, in a separate apartment, one floor up. The shuffling of materials means Harry's undressing right now.

Louis could probably stop but this goddamn evening has been ruffling each of his feathers, waking up in him parts he’s never dared to explore, and one that he didn't want to explore tonight. Preferably even ever. Fuck Maslow.

He needs to get his shit together. Or that can wait. Or— 

His hips shift involuntarily at the sound of a glass panel sliding open, and a moan fans against one of his pillows when his senses confirm that Harry's just enter the shower.

Naked. Now.

Louis really is unhinged.

Digging his elbows into the sheets, he slides a few inches up, making the drag of the fabric provide some relief to his aching dick. Not enough. 

This is crazy, _this is crazy, thisiscrazy._

He bites the pillow when the shower starts streaming, sweat making its way on the surface of his skin, inch by inch, neck, groin, armpits, chest, the overheat reddening his ears and flushing his cheeks from shame and arousal.

 _Stop_.

A bottle of soap is being uncapped and his hips thrust again. And again.

"Fuck _me_ ." Tears begin to burn his eyelids from underneath but not a single one falls. "You can't just kick a guy out and then hump your— _ah_ —goddamn bed three hours later. Get it… together. Shit."

Shitshitshitsh— 

A low groan mixed with water hitting the walls of the shower tear him out of his haze.

Is Harry crying? Is Harry— 

 _Sweet mother of amnesia_.

He rolls off the bed in one quick move, shutting down the hearing tunnel he made for himself, and leaps towards the bathroom. He takes the few feet distance with one jump, sherds his clothes once inside the shower, the cold water already splattering on his face and neck, and sits on basin in a position that would hurt if it wasn't for his flexibility, gasping to catch his breath.

Perhaps he's losing himself. Perhaps that’s what’s happening.

Perhaps he doesn't want to know.

 

The chair creaks under the sudden weight of Louis’ body as he slumps into it with zero care and a hundred percent of chronic impatience mixed with a proper dose of disgust.

“FRIDAY, look alive. I want you to initialize database search on Emily Lyman, and find every police report from the accident at the Osborn M—”

“ _Excuse my worry, but it appears as if you’re in distress, Louis. Your vitals are off, I suggest you have some rest._ ”

Louis slams his empty mug on his desk with more force than necessary, causing the dish to crack in half. He gives it a half angry, half disappointed look, and breathes sharply through his nose, the echo of the slam ringing in his ears.

“Look, with all due respect, I don’t fucking care. So... _please_ , just… focus on the research.”

FRIDAY is reluctant in her answer, but she’s just an AI talking from a glass-pad, after all. Louis didn't realize he had access to her on the device until today's fiddling with all the icons on its screen. It also may have been added by Tony out of the blue—he doesn't know, he doesn't care. He has it, he uses it.

“ _As you wish._ ”

While Louis’ hands carefully relocate the broken cup to the trash can under his desk— once again glad that Jay is a heavy sleeper—his mind is everything _but_ calm.

He’s filled with something he’s never felt. It’s not the guilt he’s become used to carrying for quite a while, it’s not anger, it’s also not pure sadness. It’s something hollow, blank, something tearing him up and shattering, making him want to scream and become mute all within a single moment.

He tried to cry after leaving the Jones’ apartment. He _wanted_ to cry. He really did. But he couldn’t. He spent half an hour staring at his completed calculations for an acid webbing he's sure he'll probably never use, and before he could become one with the couch he grabbed the remains of his tea, and, sipping the rest of his cold drink, padded to his room in hopes of getting more information about the Osborn mansion thing that the news have been on about for a couple of hours now.

Earlier, while watching the two-year-old twins busy themselves with toys, he thought of telling someone. Of maybe sharing his worries and questions. Then it dawned on him that there wasn’t another masked idiot like him that would sympathise with the clusterfuck that is his life making it startlingly clear that he has to bottle it up and take care of himself on his own. 

He’s not a baby, he can live through a heartbreak that shouldn’t even be a heartbreak. He wasn’t even in a relationship, God damn it. He’s alone. Like he should be.

He loses his hoodie, tosses it over the back of his chair, and unclasps the web-shooters from the suit stashed in his backpack.

“ _Database search completed. Emily Lyman—_ ”

“I’ll read it myself, thanks.”

He puzzles the bracelets around his wrists, listening to the soft buzzing of the glass-pad revealing a hologramic board in the air. He settles into his seat, props his legs up on his desk, and rolls a bit back in his chair to have a better look, combing his bangs back with a hand.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it’s when he’s reading the same article about the death of Emily Lyman for the third time in a row he realizes he’s learned absolutely nothing. Other than how to write a police report. He’s uncovered no information regarding the type of bomb that was used, no leads on who the attacker was, or any hint as to where the daughter of Norman Osborn is.

“Can this day get any worse?” He sighs, dropping his feet on the ground and starting to draw his hand through the windows of the hologram, sending them sideways off screen. They're useless anyway.

“ _Do you need me to answer that question?_ ”

“Very funny, true comedian in action.” He rubs his nose, closing another windows with one hand buried in his hair. “We know nothing. I can’t even predict another attack because there’s no sign of Osborn’s daughter, ergo I can’t help, ergo I am thoroughly useless. I hate being useless.” He leans back and starts fiddling with the trigger, putting it in and out of the bracelet. “Last time I was useless, some merc assaulted two men right in front of me, and I don't even know his face. Which stinks big time ‘cause he was the one who shot me yesterday, and that calls for jail.”

“ _I can run facial recognition on the footage of that encounter._ ”

He flips the trigger out and fires a single wide web at the empty piece of wall. “Yeah, no can do, Watson. I don’t think the rooftops of Brooklyn have monitoring, and I don’t use Snapchat to livestream my patrols.”

“ _Your suit, however, does_.”

Louis’ head snaps up and he winces at the sound his neck does. “My suit… livestreams on Snapchat?”

“ _Your suit records everything you see_.”

“Come again?” His hand drops back before he can start massaging his now stinging neck.

“ _I advised you to have some sleep, you seem to be having trouble comprehending—_ ”

“It’s really not the time for your suave mental first aid, FRIDAY. What do you mean my suit is monitoring everything?”

“ _As I said, it records everything you see_.”

Louis sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes with his forearm. “I feel like I'm gonna regret asking why.”

“ _It's a protocol with the explicit purpose of operating as a baby monitor_.”

If Louis thought that he wouldn't break anything else today, he was wrong. He unclenches the hand he hasn’t realised was on the desk, wincing at the sight of the splintered piece of the wood.

“Is that stalking? Because it sounds like stalking. Screw it, run the facial recognition.” He swipes out of the remaining Lyman case related windows and starts searching for the tv shows app he found the first day he got the device. “Night between Thursday and Friday, Brooklyn, around midnight. I don’t think I’ll go after him, but save it for future reference on the drive.” He gets up, drops the pad on the floor, and shoots a string of web so he can binge his show in the actual best position that just doesn't obey any laws of biology at all. “Maybe I'll have a look-see tomorrow when I'm actually useful and doing a patrol.”

 

It's at seven in the morning, two hours after Jay's kiss goodbye, thirty minutes since he pulled his suit out from the washing machine, and in the middle of one of _House'_ s season eight episodes that Louis hears a knock on the door.

He groans in exasperation, coming down from the web. After doing a quick flip, he makes sure the string has recoiled and stuck to the ceiling, and switches the screen with paused _House_ around to its rightful horizontal position with a click on the holoscreen hovering over his glasspad. He tucks the triggers of the web-shooters into the bracelets, tugs down the sleeves of his hoodie, and goes to open the door.

There's a split second when he thinks he should feel something. Sadness, sorrow, maybe he should be mad or sorry. The coldness and hollowness he finds within himself doesn’t even do as much as surprise him. It's with that exact approach that he greets his friend, leaning on the doorframe.

"You better make it short, Wilson is dying.”

Niall frowns. “Wilson?”

“My private prostitute, you know him. He's got a serious case of nonexistence, it's untreatable.” 

“Can I come in?”

“Only if I can leave.”

Niall's not moving, so Louis pushes off the doorframe and shifts away, making it clear for him that he can enter the apartment.

Niall makes himself comfortable on the backseat of the couch, his eyes trained on Louis as he walks into the kitchen.

Several minutes pass in silence broken only by the wheezing and buzzing of the coffee machine as Louis fixes his gaze on the drink filling a ridiculously pink cup. Awareness of the quiet comes slowly, and Louis grimaces when the realization hits that he is in the company of one of the most talkative people he knows and there is nothing but almost dead silence. There's never quiet with Niall in the neighborhood.

"Got your tongue cut out? And the hell are you looking at?" he asks, not bothering yet to cast his friend a glance. Instead, he reaches to the fridge and takes out the milk, feeling the intense stare burn a hole in his back. “It’s like you have lasers eyes, that's how much I can feel you stare.”

"At you," the answer comes plain, a bit strangled but confident. "When was the last time you got a good sleep?"

"You need that for a paper for English or what?" Louis turns off the coffee machine, the milk poured in the cup and back in its rightful place in the fridge. "Last time I checked we didn't get an assignment about sleep schedules, let alone _my_ sleep schedule.”

“I'm concerned about you.”

“Can you go and be concerned somewhere else?” He turns to lean against the counter. “I’m fine and functioning, as you can see. A healthy human specimen moving with their own will and strength. No drugs, no wonder pills, all hakuna matata.”

Niall screws his face, looking half offended, half worried. He pushes himself off the couch slowly.

“I'm _concerned_ about you because… 'Cause you’ve disappeared.”

“I'm right here.”

“You overwork yourself.”

“I'm sorry I care about my education. Next time I'll contact you when I'm about to open a biology book. Now, if you excuse me, my prostitute is waiting. And still dying.” Louis turns to walk out of the kitchen but Niall’s there in a second and Louis almost bumps into him. He flinches in the last moment and and takes a step back. “Tell me, you're here for what, exactly, besides annoying the fuck out of me? Because that's all you’ve done since I let you in.”

Niall’s nose does that thing when he hears something offensive enough to vex him but not enough to make him talk back. Not yet. Whether the reason of it is the curse or the admittedly asshole-ish attire, Louis finds he doesn't care. 

“So you’re being an asshole to distance people, is that it?” His eyes desperately try to connect with Louis’, to gain some leverage, some truth maybe.

“Apparently it doesn't work since you’re still here.”

Niall inhales, clearly to keep his cool for three seconds longer. He fails, as it turns out the moment his voice high-pitches.

“Just… Can you stop—stop being that fucking asshole for a sec there? 'S all I ask.”

“I could.” Louis shrugs. “But that would defeat the purpose of me being one.”

“You’re being rude.”

“And you’re trying to act like a stop sign,” he counters. “Save that crap for primary school plays. Now move.”

“What is going _on_ with you, man?”

“Me?” the word comes out as a half hiss. He digs his index finger into Niall's sternum a tad too hard. “Last I checked it's _you_ that turned up uninvited and thinking you can interrupt me like I don't have better things to do.”

“I missed the part where you told me I now have to get a written invitation before I knock.” Niall’s face goes stern as he moves Louis’ arm away. “You haven't been hangin' or callin' 'cause you’re what, snugglin' up with your boyfriend? Studying?”

Louis sends a quiet prayer to the ceiling for Niall to get the hell out before something bad happens.  “It's complicated.”

“Oh, no, by all means, do tell! 'Cause I ain't that stupid. I have no problem with you and Harry. Or Harry himself. Absolutely zero, nothing, _nada_ . I have a problem with _you_. I don't believe he's takin' all your time, I don't, you're hiding something and I wanna know what, or at least that it won't kill you. 'Cause secrets are all cool unless they kill you off. And whatever it is you've got going on on the side, it's wearing you out, and you've got only so many breaths and a beatin' heart to live. I worry about you.”

“Ok, what is it?” He sets the cup safely onto the counter, crossing his arms against his chest. His shoulders come up questioningly. “Harry came to you crying, didn't he?”

He realizes what he said a second too late, shoulders sagging.

There’s no mirror around but he's positive that all the color washes out of his face as Niall opens and closes his mouth, brows knitting in confusion, and then his eyes flicker from concern to steadily growing anger.

“What did you do to him?” The question is slow and laced with a dangerous low note.

Louis lets his gaze drift away and shrugs, chest tightening.

“What I did _for_ him.”

“If you put a goddamn finger—”

“I cut him off.”

Another few seconds of uncomfortable silence fill the air as Niall blinks a couple of times, his eyes widening. 

“You did _what_?”

“Got a trouble with comprehending?” Louis almost barks. “I did exactly what I said I would do. I don't want a relationship, I don't want him near me, I don't want to get deeper into this mess. Bing-bang-boom. We done with the interrogation?”

“Are you fucking nuts? Have you gone completely mental? That it? You got a psych ward going on the side?”

He grips on the countertop and takes one deep breath. Then another for good measure. He brushes off his bangs. They fall right back onto his eyes.

“Do you really think you can not talk to me for weeks, and suddenly show up here, and talk to me like this? I haven't heard from you for _days_. Even Jay started asking why. You don't catch up with me in the halls like you used to do, you tell me nothing. And now on top of it, you have the audacity to come here and call me names.”

“ _I_ have the audacity?” Niall almost shouts. “Me?! You're blaming _me_ for us not talking?”

“And who else?” Louis snorts, tilting his head. “Jesus? Obama?”

“Wake the fuck up, Louis! It's _you_ who hasn't spoken to _anybody_ but Harry in the past couple weeks.” Niall digs a finger in the middle of Louis’ chest. “It's _you_ who's out of the apartment _every_ time I knock here. It's _you_ who's out of reach and doesn't answer their phone. And at some point I stopped coming, Louis, because why would I keep on going if you clearly don't care? I don't wanna push myself where I'm not wanted. Do you know how it feels to lose a friend? It fucking _sucks_. And you think you can what, brush it off and never even explain a thing, that you can take off and expect me to never worry? To not care? You're not alone, Louis.” The finger on Louis’ hoodie twitches. “Whatever it is that you're going through, we hurt, too.”

Louis slaps his friend's hand away with a bit of too much force, but he's too mad to be sorry for the hiss of pain Niall lets out.

“It's been just a couple of fucking weeks! That all it takes for you to unfriend a person?”

“No, dickhead, that's all it takes for _you_ , apparently.” Niall greets his teeth, massaging the back of his hand. “I came here today hoping I'd get lucky, hoping we'd hash it all out. That you'd help me understand because I have no goddamn idea what is going on with you.”

Louis’ jaws twitch. “I told you I'm fine.”

“You’re so full of shit I don’t know what to say. You tellin’ this to the violet bags under your eyes every morning, too?”

“It's a fashion statement.”

Niall's eyes widen in disbelief. “Do you even take anything seriously anymore?”

“No, why would I? I'm too full of shit of a dickhead for that. Cut the twenty question to one, ‘cause I have only one—you planning on walking out of here anytime soon? My coffee's gettin’ cold.”

Niall watches him take the first ostentatious sip with sad eyes.

“I can't help you, Louis,” he sighs.

Louis puts the cup away. “I've never asked you to. I don't need to be looked after, I'm not an infant.”

“Louis.” Niall is clearly trying to approach the situation slow like he would a wounded animal, but his own impatience, anger, devastation is clearly seeping through. “I can't help if you don't tell me things. I don't know what's going on with you, man.”

Louis looks to the side, towards the living room, somewhere over Niall’s shoulder. He watches as dust motes dance in the air, follows some of them with sharp gaze, and then swallows.

“Hey, do you understand me?” Niall's voice is rising in dismay and growing frustration. “I don’t know how to help you anymore. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, _God_. I want to help, I can't watch you roll downhill like this, dude.” He sighs, long and world-weary. “It’s been a couple of months now, you have to—”

“Uh-oh, nonono, you don’t do that. I don't _have to_ anything, Niall," Louis corrects, still not looking at his friend. His voice is colder than intended but he does nothing to change it. “I _can_ . I don't _have to_.”

“That how it is? All you want? You have almost no relationships left, goddammit.”

“Maybe ‘cause I don't _want_ any relationships.”

“You’re alienating people.”

He pauses, tilting his head, shaking it. “Your point being?”

Niall seems a breath away from pulling his hair out.

“Jesus _fucking_ … Come on, drop that, don’t do that! You’ve changed, don’t deny it. Face up to the fact that you're not the same Louis I—”

“Yeah, I’m not two and shitting in diapers anymore, thanks for noticing.”

“You've _changed_ , you wallowing in a puddle of misery, and what’s even worse is you're afraid to face yourself. You’re not even capable of saying sorry.”

Louis’ jaws set tight enough that he can every inch of bone in his skull, slowly building rage ringing in his ears.

“You don’t get to tell me what I am, you don’t. You don’t know me.”

Niall’s eyes widen. He blinks, as if trying to get rid of whatever thought has come into his head. “That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

“Pinpoint the moment where I asked you to. I never asked you to.”

“Well, I never asked to be lied to.”

He's sure a vein on his forehead just popped.

There is a moment of terrible silence, and Louis wants nothing else but tell him. Talk about how it started, what he did wrong, why he's putting on a suit more often than not. Every detail of his life since the day he stepped aside and used the words that will always be forged in his mind.

“Look, I know this may look bad from where you're—”

“I don't give a shit about what it looks like, I care about what it is and for what it is it's you not telling me things and me trying to trust you but I _can't_ anymore.”

He wants to confess, to sit down and lay it all out. But it doesn't matter what he wants anymore. He takes a shallow breath and takes a step towards his room, hand reaching for his coffee.

“I think you should leave now.”

“Don’t turn your back on me, I'm not done talking.”

“Well, I’m done listening. Leave me alone. All of you.”

Louis doesn’t know how it happens. He’s positive that looking back on this moment, he won’t be able to explain the why or how of it, even with his reflexes and ability to register the tiniest movement. 

One moment Niall’s hand is coming into contact with his shoulder, reassuring and warm, the next he’s coughing, breath knocked out of his lungs, eyes watering and wide and looking at Louis in disbelief. He spares a single gland at the spot on the wall where his back just bounced off and slid down.

The quiet rings in Louis’ ears for a couple of dreadful seconds until it doesn’t.

“You have a stress management problem,” Niall chokes out through gritted teeth.

Louis takes a step back, away from what he's done. _I don't have a stress management problem, I have a stress problem._ He says nothing.

“You know what, fine, whatever, fuck this.” Niall gathers himself up from the floor, avoiding any eye contact. “Do what you want. I tried.”

“Yeah, I don't need your go-ahead.”

“Just don't come to me bawling your eyes out anytime soon, you had your chance.”

Louis curls his fingers in and out as he watches him stumble out of the kitchen with more coldness than he’s ever thought he’d have in him. “Great.”

“Awesome.” Niall reaches the door, and turns one more time, speaking to nobody and nothing in particular, just letting the words sound off in the apartment. “So you're really just gonna pull _A Phantom of the Opera_ , and sit here sad and alone in your castle?”

“Yeah, we've just established that.”

“Whatever. Just stay away from Harry. All of us, preferably. Maybe you need to take a second to decide what your life's gonna be like. And maybe somewhere along the way realize that you're hurting us.”

Louis doesn't tell him how unhurt Harry looked.

“Believe me, I have no interest in even looking at him. And I'm fine.”

The door opens, and before it can close, Niall clears his throat, and tries unsuccessfully to catch Louis’ eye. 

“Some day, you're gonna wind up all alone. Bloody and alone. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself.”

His steps do not falter anymore, and the door slams soundly, echoes in Louis’ ears.

That’s the first time Louis thinks that the problems he has might lie within himself. 

 

**March the 18th, Sunday**

 

Jay’s hand clutches his knee when he makes to stand up and put away the empty cereal bowl.

“Is everything okay?” she asks in that low, quiet voice that indicates she’s up for a serious parent talk.

No. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the couch, settling onto the edge, eyes stuck on the dish. The news playing in the background isn’t helping settle his nerves.

“I can see something's bothering you.” Jay rubs his kneecap with a thumb. “Is it school? Teachers giving you a hard time?”

“I could handle the teachers, Jay.” Stupid. Should have gone along with the excuse. “Them I can handle.”

“So what is it then? How's Harry?”

He shrugs, chest tight, a lump growing in his throat.

“I wouldn't know. I don't hear from him anymore.”

He gets quiet in response, Jay’s breath hitching for one barely noticeable second, then falling back into its rhythm, making it too obvious that she tries to keep her cool. At least she has some cool left to keep, contrary to him.

“But what happened?” The question is filled with confusion. “You two seemed to fit so well together.”

“You said…” He exhales deeply, risking eye contact. He’s quick to realize it’s a mistake, but he doesn’t withdraw now. He holds the piercing gaze of his aunt. “You said, if I ever got someone, if I ever... If I want to _be_ with someone, I need to stay honest.”

The grip on his bowl tightens when Jay’s brows furrow questioningly.

“I did.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I don't think I can do that, Jay.”

Her face softens, but the strain and a pile of questions are still there, still in her voice, in her eyes and the way she smiles at him.

“You can do everything, angel. You'll find a way. You're too smart not to.”

He wants to believe it. He really does. He just doesn't think there's enough faith and hope in him to carry on with this belief.

 

**March the 21st, Wednesday**

 

All things considered, Louis doesn't think his life has gone down the toilet. It's pretty much in the depths of the sewer system by now.

Jay is one sigh away from chaining him to the bed, the gunshot wound doesn't look pretty, Tony's voice laced with sorrow has stuck on repeat in his head, Nick made him forget about even trying to check on Harry in the suit after school—out of two devils, he's decided that maybe it's for the best,—and on top of that, he hasn't eaten anything for lord knows how long now. Food seems too trivial to care about now.

He's settled on the roof of Forest Hills Bagels—or _Haggin’s_ —at seven in the morning, a cup of coffee in his left hand and a bagel in his right one.

There are times when he gets mad at the city for not giving a shit, but then there are moments like this one when he's just glad that the people of New York City are so used to the weirdness being the default mode of their surroundings that nobody even thinks twice about questioning a kid munching bagels on a rooftop of a diner on a Saturday morning. He wonders if anyone would notice if he hung upside down. Someone would probably just clap at the sight and take a picture to their Instagram stories, and that someone would be a tourist.

He takes a sip of his drink, the hot bitterness burning his throat.

Rooftops have become his safe place of a kind. It's more peaceful up there. Like he doesn't have to strain himself, like there's no barriers to his thoughts. It's where there's the smallest chance of someone walking in on him, of interruptions and noise. He enjoys the trances he can fall into, trading them for a good night of sleep. A couple of minutes spent on a rooftop taking deep breaths have turned into his way of resting. The noise coming from the streets is the perfect soundtrack for the morning after a sleepless night.

So far, physically, he’s fine—all reflexes working on their highest gear, there’s been no decrease in his strength and speed. That’s because physically, he knows that he can go like this for days. Exhaust himself, sleep an hour every four days. He’s designed for it, the circumstances engineered him for non-stop patrol.

But the forced insomnia has been accompanied with deepening periods of restlessness. His mind seems to be racing twenty four seven, there’s no peace in there. It’s a mess he isn’t all that concerned about—his thoughts have always been some sort of a race. He wouldn’t be where he is now academically if that wasn’t the case.

Sometimes he thinks there will _never_ be any peace up there. That he’s damned for life when it comes to the clamorous tumult that is his mind. Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe the thoughts he tries to avoid will get lost in that tumult at some point. 

He finishes his food at a leisurely pace, eyes scanning the street. He waves the Forest Hills Bagel's owner's wife when she comes around. He stares at nothing, he listens to his own breath, he follows random birds with his eyes.

He doesn't want to focus. He doesn't want the reality to dawn on him, to make him realize how deep in shit he is. He doesn't want to know.

It appears that his friends—ex-friends now, maybe—have done exactly what he asked for. He's left alone.

None of them approach him in the halls. None of them spare a glance. Liam looks like he wants to ask, clear confusion written all over his face every time his eyes meet Louis'. Whatever it was that Niall told him, he seems to respect Louis' wishes, even if it's with obvious reluctance.

He's just truly left alone. And he doesn’t allow himself to consider if he’s made the right choice. 

He taps on the earpiece twice, turning it on.

" _...47th and Madison Ave, 10-30..._ "

 

**March the 22nd, Thursday**

 

Louis is pretty sure that starfishing in his bed isn't a productive task. He's also pretty sure that he'll be late if he doesn't get up in three minutes max.

Thirty minutes of sleep. It's not even a nap.

His body is still sweaty, hair still laid back from the hours it spent under a mask, the couple of bruises caused by his own stupidity haven't even started going yellow, and he has only two minutes if he wants to make it on his subway.

He tries to yawn, the urge crawling up his throat, but nothing comes. Too done.

Trading sleep for caffeine might not have been a good idea, but good ideas are overrated. At least that what he's telling himself once he enters the bathroom with a cup of coffee in one hand and clothes in the other.

Shower. Coffee. Brushing teeth. Coffee.

He winces. Takes another sip. “Yuck.”

And another sip.

Nothing better to wake you up than a run across the highest rooftops in civvies and a mask. Truly a master of going incognito, he is.

 

Later that day Jay finds him facedown on the floor in his bedroom where he attempted to correct his already grammatically perfect English essay.

“You okay, angel?”

Louis shows her a thumbs up, cheek nuzzled into the ground, the bruise between his shoulder blades stinging. “Just havin’ some quality me time.”

 

**March the 26th, Monday**

 

"Which desk is it already, Mister Tomlinson?"

Louis rubs his eyes with a sleeve of his sweater and stares down at the broken edge of a desk. He doesn't have to look around to know he's being stared at. Again.

“Fifth, I think."”

“Are you feeling alright?"

Define alright. “Diamond fine, miss.”

 

**March the 27th, Tuesday**

 

He tries to watch _House_ alone, just like he always did before Harry, before Niall.

“ _You need to learn—_ ”

“ _How to act when you're gone? 'Cause if that's the lesson, we got a really great opportunity coming up_.”

“ _You'll just try to find someone else, and it won't work, and it shouldn't work!_ ”

“ _So that's the great wisdom you're imparting? That I'll always be alone?_ ”

He shuts the laptop, suppress the urge to smash it into the ceiling, changes into his suit, and jumps into the Tuesday evening.

 

leeyum, 8:22 PM

There's one last tournament tomorrow. The club wants you to photograph. 9AM, the gym.

 

leeyum, 8:25 PM

Take care.

 

**March the 28th, Wednesday**

 

In an unsurprising turn of events, the days have been finding him painfully alone. With Jay still working her ridiculously irregular shifts and spring break, he's had more time for patrols before and after school.

Doing homework during patrols has become part of the routine. He does the chemistry tasks on a rooftop if he didn't manage during classes. He writes an essay during lunch breaks. He squeezes all the responsibilities into one, not leaving any room for rest.

It's effective. The argument of more lives saved easily tips his wacky sleeping schedule even further. That is, if he considers that he has one, which he doesn't. His inner dictionary deleted the term 'sleeping schedule’ like six months ago.

He sighs, closes the math notebook, stuffs it into the backpack which he then slings over his shoulder, and leaps off the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, firing a web to catch the corner of it and use the momentum for an all-around swing.

 

**March the 30th, Friday**

 

If selfish means dragging his partially functioning body to Harry Styles’ apartment just because he misses him like hell and it seems that Harry had been the only source of his little smiles lately, then yes, he's selfish.

Sue him.

Louis was a fool for thinking that maybe the infatuation was going to magically disappear and he’d be free of the burden. The reality is, as always, sad and disappointing.

“Did it hurt?” Harry asks conversationally.

He throws another knife at the board. It joins the triangle outline he’s aiming for. So far, he’s had a hundred percent success rate which is exactly what has been screwing with Louis’ head.

As far as weird shit goes, Louis can’t comprehend how a sweet kid like Harry—the clumsy Harry whose two friendships started off with crashing into a tower of toilet paper and stumbling into someone after storming out of a toilet—can do things like this. Then again, maybe Harry isn't made of only candy and sunshine. Louis’ the first to showcase how much a person can hide.

Seeing the board was one thing, but watching Harry actually making _use_ of it is a completely different story. It’s odd but unsurprising. And hot as hell.

Louis tries very hard to not notice the way Harry looks from behind—the focus without his body carrying unnecessary tension, clear confidence in the smoothness of the motion when he does his thing is all sorts of appealing. Louis tries and fails spectacularly. It’s too hypnotizing.

“The bite itself, no,” he finally replies. He rests his elbows on his knees and props his chin on entwined hands. His eyes fall back on the way too soft sweater that Harry’s sporting yet again. “But the two days afterwards were quite agonizing. Dizziness, headaches.” He winces, recalling the dreadful days. “Everything hurt like hell, it felt like I was both on fire and ice cold at once. Every little thing was too much, even a fly in the kitchen while I was under a blanket in my room. It felt like death was upon me, poking me and laughing.”

“Something tells me that despite all o’ that you didn’t end up in a hospital.”

“What was I supposed to say, huh? ‘Hey, guys, I just flipped a car and turns out I can scale walls’? Yeah, no, I wasn’t big on getting on the Crazy Town list.”

Harry snorts out a chuckle.

“Fair point. Plus, you wanted to keep it a secret, right?”

“Honestly, at the beginning, I didn’t even know what I wanted,” Louis admits. “I was quite horrified. I mean, that kinda stuff just doesn’t happen on the daily.”

“One thing, tho’.” Harry walks up to the board to collect the knives and throw them into the box he’s grabbed from the bed. “Did you ever take some x-rays or whatever? Do research with blood samples? There must have been a reason why it hurt so much, and maybe you'd get to know the powers a bit better.”

“Actually, I got around to this two weeks ago.” Louis gets down from the wall to join Harry’s side. “It hadn’t occurred to me before then, I don’t know.”

Harry hands him the box and sits criss-cross on the bed. “And what did the results say?”

“Well, I have an extra circulatory system, like, a lot of extra vessels in me. That’s weird but the less I think about it the better. Also my body produces less fatigue toxins so that I can exert myself for days.”

“At least you didn't grow extra nipples or some shit. Or did you? If you did, I gotta warn you that I copyrighted them seventeen years ago.”

He takes a step back to where Harry was standing before across the board, then grabs one of the knives, and drops the box on the bed.

“I didn't. Not that I know of. Just produced some hemocyanin, extra tissue, and wiped out a crapload of fatigue toxins which leads to some insane stamina. Basically I can swing around not worried about the possibility of my organs turning into soup, I can hang upside down for ages, and it’s hard to make me feel tired.”

“Yeah, I understood the half sciencey babble, thank you, I got into MH because of my grades, not looks. And,” Harry adds when Louis’ about to aim for the board but Harry interferes, “these are blade-heave knives, so place your index, middle, and ring fingers dead center on the handle. Your little finger can just hang off the end.” He demonstrates it on a knife he picks up from the box. “Thumb goes directly on the center of the other side of the handle. When you release the knife, you just open your hand. No interference with the knife. Keep it simple.”

Louis’ guts twist at the flicker of a thought that Harry could have demonstrated it by using body contact.

“Thank you, Bill the Butcher.” He follows the steps and aims again. He scrunches his nose in displeasure when the knife cuts straight in the dead centre of the board. “Anyways, it turned out that I’d been in pain because my body had been producing all the extra bits for my body. If it wasn’t for the fact that this city has seen aliens and superhumans, I would have been more surprised by that.”

“Which is why you were a sensation, but not that big of a sensation.” Harry hands him another knife. “You’re weird because you’re not an Avenger, you’re not with the X-Men wherever they are, you’re not with the Hell’s Kitchen people. You’re on your own. That’s what caught people’s attention, see, I mean, that’s what I think.”

“That’s what I think, too.” Louis doesn’t remark that he’s scared of crossing the Hell’s Kitchen’s streets. He doesn’t feel like meeting a guy in red tights that took out thirty ninjas on his own. On a rooftop. In the middle of the night. One might say he’s a coward, and Louis would nod to that.  

“How far up can you jump?”

“Four, five stories? Haven't put my mind into testing it.”

“How fast can you run?”

“Dunno, sixty MPH?”

“So you beat people up.”

“Only bad people,” Louis corrects, pointing at Harry with the blade of the knife. He throws it then on he board, aiming for the left top corner and succeeding. “And I ain’t starting it, those fights.”

“You sure as hell do finish it.”

“There are bad people in this world. I wish there weren’t but there are. And I don’t beat them up. Partly because I don’t like to fight, and partly because I don’t know _how_ to fight.”

Harry lets out a short laugh. “Looks like the spider wasn't fond of _Kung Fu Panda_.”

“Not really. I only weasel my way in and out of a crime stopping situations.” Louis accepts a metal star from Harry’s hands and fiddles with it. “I know I have to prevent something bad from happening, so I do my best to do so. I’m good at immobilising, and the element of surprise is always there, so I’ve been doing fine. Usually the bad guys are dumb and end up on the floor without me even trying much. I can literally jump over them and they bump against one another. I’m tellin’ you, it’s like you’re at the circus for free sometimes. And then sometimes it comes down to me being careless or stupid and trying to take a whole gang on my own.”

For a few seconds only the sound of knives whizzing through the air and cutting into the board break the silence in the room. Then Harry shifts a little and speaks up again.

“Someone made you do it or you took it upon yourself? The crime-fighting, I mean.”

Louis pauses with his hand in the box. He bites on his lower lip and forces himself to straighten up to not look weird bent over the bed. He aims for the board again, blinking away the tears prickling behind his eyelids, and throws.

The past couple of days have reminded him of the weight they have on his heart, of the burden he’s been trying to ignore. The loneliness. The blurred lines making him wonder if it was him who beat that red-headed thief or was it someone else? The constant ringing in his head, constant echo of what he cut himself off from, of what he’s suppressing and stashed deep inside in the hope of maybe pretending he doesn’t feel.

He swallows it all down.

Cactus’ purring gets closer to the door.

Another few seconds of quiet fill the room as Louis picks the knife up from the floor where it has fallen while he was lost in his thoughts. He bends it back to the original shape, knowing it won’t be the same again anyway. The damage has been done.

“I didn't save someone I loved.” He throws the knife with much greater force and precision, wobbly, the damage having destroyed its balance. It cuts right through the center of a knife already stuck on the board. Both of them fall on the floor with a clatter. “So now I'm saving everyone else, I guess.”

 

**March the 31st, Saturday**

 

Louis has tried to come up with a few scenarios of how Harry would react to him landing on the sidewalk next to him in daylight and in public, but none of them matched the quick look that Harry gives him over his shoulder before returning to his order at the taco stand.

"Four double cheese, please."

Louis sighs, cracking his neck. "Not hungry."

Harry throws up four fingers.

“Alright. Four double cheese and none for my friend, please.”

Louis breathes out a chuckle and eyes Harry up and down. As if he didn’t give him a good once over at school. It was kind of hard to miss the bright pink button up, fitted black jeans, and a pair of dark Converse.

"So what's a fine ass like you doin' in Manhattan like this in full gear?" Harry casts a question into the void of people and cars.

Louis walks up to the taco stand and stops by Harry's side, arms crossed on his chest, fingers twitching.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Harry's shoulders come up in a shrug. “You could but you didn't.”

“I was in the neighborhood," Louis explains truthfully. "Noticed you here, swung to say hi.’

“Which you also didn't.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You haven't said hi yet.”

The smugness reflecting in Harry's eyes as he takes his food from the older man without even looking at what and how he's grabbing it make the corners of Louis' lips quirk up.

"That makes you a liar," Harry adds, hanging the bag with the food safe on the crook of his right elbow, his attention fully on Louis. "And that makes you in a need for redemption, and I have an idea. Ever made out in a shit-stanched alley in Manhattan?"

Louis scratches the top of his masked head, shoving the laugh crawling up his throat back down. It’s not like he laughs these days anyway, it would come out as a half bark.

“You sure do think highly of yourself if you think you could be the crux of my redemption.”

“Someone has to." Harry shrugs. "They paint you as they see you, Webs. In the end, looks are everything. Just not in the way that fashion shows want you to think. Does that make sense?”

The flicker in Harry's eyes reminds Louis why he let the guy into his life in the first place. And why he pushed him away in the second.

“I can always just say hi and get it over with,” Louis supplies, falling into the step with Harry when the boy begins to walk. “And to answer your question, no, I have never made out in an alley. And yes, it, yeah, it kind of makes sense.”

Harry makes a 'you're welcome' face and gets quiet, but comfortably quiet. Louis takes the couple of seconds of anticipation for a continuation of the chat to glance around. Turns out that even in the weirdness tolerance that New York carries, a civilian in the company of Spider-Man does attract some attention.

Louis refrains from hunching his shoulders in anxiety. He's not Louis right now.

"We've missed the welcoming point, Webs, that ship has sailed," Harry says and stops on the red lights. ”And to carry the topic, neither have I. First time for everything?”

“Eager to try?”

“Only if you give consent.”

“Classy,” Louis hums, starting to walk when the light turns green. “Where are you going?”

“Subway,” Harry says, keeping to Louis' side. “A friend told me about spectacular tacos here and I felt like grabbing them for our meet cute.”

"Meet cute?" Louis' chest tightens.

"Jealous?" Harry quirks an eyebrow at him, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Ha—happy for you," Louis tries for a steady tone just to fail miserably like any other time he tries to contain his emotions around Harry. The cure for those failures would be not meeting Harry at all, but there’s no cure for stupidity. He clears his throat. "Who's the lucky bastard?"

"Hold your horses, Webs, he's just a friend." Harry takes a turn to the stairs leading to the subway station, and Louis follows automatically. "Helps me out with chemistry. Figured I could at least bring him a taco in return."

"Can't let a guy die from malnutrition under your watch, can ya?”

"He's a good guy. There's less and less of those."

The note of sadness coloring Harry's voice makes Louis' lungs collapse some more for a second, his breath catching in his throat. 

"Someone hurt you recently or something?" He asks cautiously. 

Harry gives it some thought, stopping on the corner at the end of the stairway. He scrunches his nose in a way that Louis knows far too well.

"Or something."

Louis doesn't get to ask anything else, which he's partly grateful for, as Harry's face lights up and a smile widens his lips at the sight of something in front of him. Louis follows his gaze. His knees get genuinely close to collapsing on themselves at the sight of a familiar face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Styles, you didn't tell me you mingle with the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man," says Peter, stopping closer to Harry and facing Louis. He draws his hand out. "Peter Parker. Pleasure to meet you. Unless it's a cosplay, which, in that case, that's one amazing suit."

"He's the real deal, Pete, I ain't doing fakes," Harry scoffs, tugging on the hood of Peter's red cap. “What do you take me for?”

It takes Louis at least a century to finally return Peter's gesture and shake his hand properly, insides basically in braids and heart somewhere in Tokyo. 

"Nice to meet you," he chokes out and clears his throat, embarrassed to hell and back for his breakdown. He withdraws his arm and scratches his shoulder. "Nice to meet you. Peter."

“Real pleasure, man, you're the best. Avengers ain't got shit on you.” Peter flashes a genuine, bright smile. “You actually once helped my grandma with her groceries. I only didn't yell at her for not getting an autograph because she's quite old and I want her around. She makes badass doughnuts.”

“What Peter's trying to say is that he needs your autograph so he can tattoo it on his ass,” Harry throws in, putting his free arm around the boy's shoulders.

To Louis’ anguish, Peter actually snuggles into the half hug, a couple of strands of his dark, soft bangs falling into his eyes as he laughs. Louis’ decent enough to admit that the guy is one pretty thing—dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, sunny smile, and toned but slim physique. The beige sweater and dark skinnies look simultaneously fashionable and casual enough to make it look like he's not even trying to be cool and he probably isn't. He gives off that I-just-want-them-clothes-to-be-comfy vibe and in different circumstances Louis would probably stare at him from afar until Niall kicked his ass to go and chat Peter up.

Louis catches himself sincerely hoping the Peter guy from Taco Bell wouldn't make it that hard to dislike him.

“Don't listen to this idiot, he's lying. Tattoo on my ass won't be visible, I want it on my face so I can flaunt,” Peter declares, knocking on Harry's head.

For the thousandth time, Louis’ happy he decided to wear a mask as his face does a thing that even Picasso wouldn't be able to replicate on a canvas. Louis doesn't think he'll ever do it again himself.

“We wouldn’t like that pretty face to go to waste, now, would we?” He manages to get his vocal cords to work, even if it's a shit work that they do.

Peter gasps, a one hand wandering up to his heart where it clutches on the sweater.

“Put that on my tombstone and shut the front door. This is the best day of my life.”

It's a twisted dream, it's got to be.

“I, uh…” Louis swallows again, everything hurting as he sees the two boys about to start to bicker. They turn their attention back to him in an instant. “I gotta go. Patrol. And stuff.”

Harry's first to throw himself in a quick hug. Louis chokes on his breath and gives Peter a look over Harry's shoulder that neither of them can notice.

“Have a good day, Webs,” Harry says as he withdraws, stepping back to fall into the place by Peter's side.

“Webs?” Peter frowns at him and quickly switches to Louis, brows back to relaxed and lips  curling in a smile. “Take care.”

As he takes the stairs, Louis tells himself that it's what he wanted to see. That all of his friends are settling in, that they look fine, that they're happy.

They escaped Louis' orbit. It's better if their and Louis' worlds don't collide.

He tells himself the lie in hope that one day he might believe it. Tells himself this is what he wanted.

Tell a lie long enough to believe it, they say. Just how long is long enough?

 

_“The sudden increase in sightings of Spider-Man has sparked debates among the press. It's been calculated that the wall-crawler has been recently five times more efficient and approximately three times more present on the streets of New York. It's been noted that the scale of his daily patrols has expanded to more areas of the city. The crime has dropped down incredibly quickly. Some are starting to appreciate the local hero more than the Avengers themselves, grateful for keeping an eye out for the little guy, some say there might be more than one Spider-Man. What's your take on the issue? We wanna hear your calls.”_

 

**April the 2nd, Monday**

 

"How do you do this and your private life?" Harry asks as if they are actually doing the interview that was their hit-it-off, tearing his eyes away from the window behind which Queens is going to sleep. Or at least a part of it.

Louis turns his head, fixing the position of his hand he's got under his occiput. The web hammock they're lying in spread across Harry's room rocks when Harry rolls onto his side, his eyes staring into the lenses of Spider-Man's mask.

Louis will be forever grateful for the guard the mask provides. He wouldn't like Harry to see the tears glassing his eyes.

"There are some costs," he rasps out in reply, gaze dropping to Harry's lips.

"Is it worth it?"

To that question Louis doesn't answer.

 

**April the 3rd, Tuesday**

 

He really didn't mean to make it into a habit. He would have rather swallowed a knife than make it into a habit.

Looks like someone needs to hand him that knife because once again he's sitting upside down in the corner of Harry's bedroom, a familiar cap fiddled with in his hands as Cactus keeps an eye on him from the other corner.

“Didn't your dad ever teach you to judge characters more carefully?” he asks in response to Harry’s explanation where he got it from. One of the mask's lenses buzzes as he quirks an eyebrow at the boy in question.

Harry snorts, putting the hand that’s been scratching his chest underneath his neck and making himself more comfortable on the pillow.

“What? Your father not the teachin' sort?” Louis guesses, throwing the cap on the desk.

“Oh, no, he was plenty of a teachin’ sort. You wouldn’t have been here days ago watching me show off if he hadn’t.”

Louis hums in lieu of answer. He gives the statement a thought.

“What else can you do?”

“Basics of MCMAP, mostly CQC, some weapons and how to use ‘em, those knives and throwing stars. Anything he managed to make me do in the garage of our house in Holmes Chapel.”

Say what? “Holmes Chapel?”

Harry nods like it’s not an information, like it’s a known fact, like Louis should be used to him throwing trivia around.

“England. We lived there for, like, four years, I guess,” he says conversationally, closing his eyes. “‘Cause dad was on his tours more often than not and he wanted us to have someone around, so we ended up with his parents, God rest their souls. Not long enough for me to pick up the accent. I should have, never did, never wanted to, maybe. I wasn’t much of an outgoing kid until ‘round the time my old man died. I’d spend my time on reading romance, listening to Shania Twain and Queen with my grandpa, watching Disney animated movies, practicing martial arts with dad’s old friend from Holmes. Only martial arts then, mom and grandparents wouldn’t approve the guns at house. At least that I was spared until we were back in New York.”

“You were born in England, then?”

It takes a superior amount of inner strength to not facepalm now as Louis realizes this is the fucking least important part of the whole speech of Harry’s. Because screw the information that Harry can do martial arts which means he’s got _some_ body underneath those flannels and long-sleeved shirts. Screw the fact that he was probably abused, that he might have some mental issues because of his messy childhood, that Louis—the ‘superhero’ here—is worse than some guy from Brooklyn at hand-to-hand combat.  

He really needs his brain to get back from where it flew out of the window lord knows when.

“Not really. Born in Brooklyn, then England, lived there for a couple years, dad died, then back here but that time Manhattan. Moved again because mom changed jobs for better, and now I’m here in Queens. She and dad met as students in college, mom a want-to-be actress, dad already after one tour. She gave all her dreams up for him. Gemma, my sister, was born four years before me, right after my parents' marriage.”

“Why wouldn’t your dad let your mom do what she wanted?”

“My dad, he was struggling after he came back from his tours.”

Harry sighs in a way that signals that bringing the topic up isn’t the easiest thing, but it’s barely there, just the tiniest indicator—it genuinely seems like Harry’s over it. Louis’ one to risk to say that Harry never really cared. It’s like he’s explaining a plot of some cheap soap opera.

“It was tough. I never been to war, Webs, but that shit, it changes people. Dad would just get worse and worse, there was no coming back, no peace on his mind, no sign of the man my mom met all these years ago. And then he got killed in a brawl in a bar.”

Louis gasps unintentionally. He coughs to cover it, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry?” he tries, knowing exactly how it is to lose a family member. Or three.

Harry’s shoulders come up in the tiniest shrug.

“Shit happens, right?”

“You okay now?” Louis makes sure, eyes trained on Harry. The boy can’t possibly be this okay with his dad passing away in such a terrible way.

“Yeah, I mean, what was I supposed to do? Mope around for... for being dealt quite a crappy hand? He struggled, ‘kay, he wasn’t the dad that my peers had. The society got it fucked up, you know, that parents are the ultimate personas that we should love no matter what. It’s bullshit. They’re just people. You should love people who love you back.” He blows a lazy raspberry. “I was eight when he died, that kind of age when you start understanding the world a little, and I understood enough to know that my dad wasn't a good person. And before you say I'm a cold-blooded specimen, I did cry, yeah, the death still affected me. I don’t like watching people go. I don’t like people dying. I shed a few tears over the idea of a father I never quite had and always hoped for, but he wouldn't come.”

He pauses to take in a lungful and breathe out through the nose.

“When you’re confronted with a shit situation, you have two options that make sense. There’s the third if you’re suicidal, and fourth if you’re soulless and a killing spree sounds as good as Disneyland to you. But among those two that make sense, it’s you either laugh or cry. I could lull myself to sleep with tears and visit a tombstone every day, or I could reshuffle the deck of cards I was dealt and make something good out of them. Take a pick on what I chose.”

A couple of seconds of silence falls in the room, and Louis listens to Harry’s steady heartbeat, in quite disbelief over Harry’s approach towards the issue. He understands where the boy’s coming from, but the clear indifference that colors every word is unsettling.

Harry continues with a sigh.

“My dad might ‘ave never shown me what a good guy looks like, but at least he showed me what an a-through-z dickhead looks like. Guess in the end he kinda did teach me something more than he wanted to.” He lets out a short, heartless laugh. “I’m not the best, yeah, but I like to consider myself good. All I want is to enjoy little things and live a life worth living. Never missing out on chances. I think it's a pretty easy way to live, you know?” He smiles. “Just, you know. Do it in the way I want while not leaving a trail of corpses behind.”

Louis nods, starting to fiddle with his web-shooter. He knows something about choices.

“A choice like yours demands strength, you know?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe it does. I think—I _guess_ I just consider myself lucky enough to wind up as someone different to the person that tried to raise me. The psychologist from my previous school said that my humor is my way of ‘compensating for and escaping from the unhappiness over the trauma of my childhood.’ Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s how the weirdness grew on me. I mean, well, after all... After all, like someone said, laughter’s life’s anesthesia.”

 

**April the 4th, Wednesday**

 

There’s no explanation for why Phoebe and Daisy stop in their tracks, nearly causing Louis to stumble. He inhales sharply, irritation boiling in his stomach.

“If you’d stop squirming, I’d appreciate the hell out of it,” he growls.

“Are you okay?” Daisy asks, marking it the first time that either of the twins had directed any of their conversation towards Louis since he had picked them up from the Joneses. 

“Peachy with a field of sunflowers,,” Louis replies in the calmest voice he can muster. Inhale, exhale. “Can we keep moving, please? I don’t want us to be late.”

Phoebe frowns. “We’re never late, Achoo.”

“Just move.”

He really doesn’t need the girls reminding him just how much of an asshole he’s been recently. The concern evident in Jay’s gaze everytime she looks at him does enough to punch him in the gut.

He’s not about to change his mind though, he made the right choice. Choosing what he knows over what he feels hasn’t been the most pleasant event in his life, but the show must go on, right?

It's when a familiar voice welcomes him and the twins once they step into Edward’s that he realizes there actually is a reason why the twins stopped in their tracks. Jaw set tight, he lets go of the kids’ hands and walks up to Perrie.

“You look like crap, Doll,” the woman states in lieu of greeting, resting her hip on the counter.

Louis opens and closes his mouth, avoiding any eye contact. This is exactly why he hasn’t come by the cake shop recently.

“What happened?”

He forces himself to shrug. “Life.”

“Tired?” The worry in her voice deepens.

“Finals around the corner, you know, gotta study.” He nods, stubbornly keeping his gaze glued to the twins. He's not _tired_.

“Are you trying to make me think that you, Louis 'I have read all Tony Stark's and Reed Richard’s papers’ Tomlinson, are studying hard for high school finals? Sorry, sweetheart, not buying it.”

Alright. “That was weak, I admit.”

Louis presses his lips together and looks up. If it was three weeks ago, he'd feel tears pricking on the underside of his eyelids. Now, though, he simply feels as rung out as a damp cloth.

“What is it, Louis, come on.” Perrie pushes, her eyes scanning Louis’ face intently. “Someone hurt you? Family issues? You got a B? Two B’s in a row?”

“Nobody hurt me, no.” He scratches the back of his neck. And then, before he thinks about it, he adds, “I think it's more about me hurting them.”

Perrie's eyes connect with his, her head tilted to the side. She blinks once, twice, and frowns. “What do you mean?”

_I mean I led them towards something that was never gonna happen. I mean I'm a piece of shit. I mean I hurt the one person I never intended on hurting._

He clears his throat.

“Sometimes…. doing the right thing isn't quite convenient. Maybe ‘cause there's no such _thing_ as doing the right thing, I don't—I don’t know. All I know is it sucks.”

Maybe nothing’s ever right.

Not for the first time, Louis resents the fact that his emotions can be read clear as day on his face without the barrier of his mask there to protect him.

“That 'them’ of yours—”

“Perrie, there's no yours.” His nostrils flare. Breathe in. “And before you ask, there's never been a 'we'. Just me and my bullshit, if anything.”

Perrie gives him a few seconds to calm down, and leans forward, resting her hands on the counter. She doesn’t comment on the curse.

“You know what I think?” There’s a smile in her voice. A small one, encouraging, and delicate, but it still sets Louis’ nerves on edge. “I think you just need to let someone in one day, Louis, that's what falling in love means.”

“You charge by the hour, miss shrink?” he snarks.

“You're not one to hurt a fly, Doll, I know you. You couldn’t have possibly hurt that someone, at least not intentionally.”

Louis lets his gaze drift, looking out through the storefront.

“And that’s where you’d be wrong.”

“Why don't you want to talk about it?”

“Why do _you_ want to?” he retorts way too aggressively, snapping his head to finally look at Perrie.

His eyes widen at the hurt in her eyes. He mutters an apology.

“Why are you trying to keep everyone out, honey?”

To that question Louis doesn't answer.

He pays for two donuts with yellow frosting, grabs the twins by their hands, and doesn't forget a polite goodbye.

 

Harry continues to pretend he doesn’t even notice Louis. Louis continues to pretend he doesn’t care.

 

**April the 6th, Friday**

 

Harry's a morning jogger. Of course he is.

It's like a punch in the guts when it dawns on Louis how little he cared about Harry's private life and hobbies, never asking many questions, all because he didn't want the attachment.

But the jogging, Louis should have expected that. He really should have. He should have expected everything that's unexpected from Harry Styles. The sky is blue. Harry likes to jog at five in the morning.

Except the sky isn't blue and there's as much to Harry as to the color of the sky—both him and the sky are the same thing but looking different when looked at from a different perspective.

He discovers the jogging when coming back from a patrol taking a different route. He's never regular, never takes the same swings home, always patrolling different parts of the city, so at least he doesn't feel bad for not noticing it sooner.

He perches on the roof of one on the buildings on Austin Street, taking a better look.

He knows that Harry looks fine. Over the couple of visits he's paid him, and the times they’ve crossed paths in the school halls, he's been able to deduce that Harry still looks like Harry. Still smiling, still cracking jokes with varying levels of success, still sporting a different headscarf every day.

In all selfishness, it makes Louis feel better about himself. He hasn't managed to hurt Harry that much, if at all. He hasn't made anyone other than himself miserable.

Every day when he drags his semi-dead body through the corridors his heart warms at the sight of dancing eyes and rosy cheeks. It makes him content when he sees the people he cares about being alright without him.

He knows he should feel betrayed. Someone else in his place would probably be eaten away over how his friends are doing great without him, how they can live a life without his presence in it.

Not him. Not when any connection to him is dangerous. He loses focus when Harry's around him. He loses time when Niall wants a meet up. He puts Liam's life in danger by being so close with him. Hell, even Zayn could be handcuffed and tortured if some maniac got their hands on Spider-Man's identity.

For him, the choice to live an ordinary life is off the table.

So it's with fondness and longing that he observes Harry's steady jog, lingering a bit too long with his gaze.

Ten minutes later he's hitting the pillow on the upper bunk, not really happy, but not unhappy either.

Just... Will do.

 

**April the 9th, Monday**

 

Louis makes an educated guess that Felicia has to have a friend slash a partner living in his block.

That or she’s stalking him, as much as a person you’ve come across three times can be stalking you.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in tears in a place like this at such an hour?”

Because Felicia's crying. Ugly sobbing, to be more precise. Having just stormed out of the block he lives in, her hair a complete mess, the hairband hanging loosely at the ends of her hair, makeup absolutely ruined, and clothes apparently put on in such a rush that she didn’t even bother with zipping up her shorts.

“What’s a fucking clown like you doing here thinking like he can chat up a girl?” She bites, snapping her head up to look at where he's hanging on the lantern. “Can you keep your puberty away from me for like one fucking minute?”

_Buckle up._

Louis flips, lets go of the web, and lands in front of the girl. He draws out a hand.

“I was coming to say hi, check if you’re alright.”

She narrows her eyes, brows knitting and head shaking.

“You switched your dick with your brain, you fucking moron? Do I seem like I'm alright to you?” She slaps his hand away. “You comin’ here to see if a pretty girl puts out, huh? If you wanna make fun of me— “

“I’m sorry but do I seem threatening and sexually frustrated to the point where you can honestly describe me as someone who's trying to flirt with you right now?” He sets his hands on his hips, decides he looks stupid, and scratches his neck instead. “Of course I can see you don't look alright. I have eyes and ears. I wanted to know if you feel alright. And if I can help, maybe.”

She eyes him up and down sceptically.

He places one palm on his chest and shoots three fingers in the air.

“Scout’s honor, just wanted to ask if you're alright is all.”

A snort. “You didn’t go to Scouts.”

“That you cannot know, miss.”

“I know things, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis’ heart drops. He swallows. 

“How’d—How’d you—”

“Three grocery bags in two fingers. Later that day I was leaving the block, and guess who swung swung right above me, clearly leaving the building? What a coincidence. Plus, I told you, you have weird eyes.” She looks up and aside, clearly exasperated and annoyed by the question like it’s an insult of some sort. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”

Louis shakes his head, dumbfounded. “I’m not—You don’t look— “

“Drop the act. You weren’t even interested in me, of course a nerd like you wouldn’t be— “

“I’m gay.”

She begins to make a retort but appears to resign herself from further arguments.

She drops her head, sniffles, and wipes her nose with the black coat she's holding in her arms. The makeup didn't look so bad from where he was crouched on the wall, but now that he's got a closer look-see, it looks downright tragic. Mascara and lipstick smudged to maximum, foundation messy and partially bleared from tears and probably constant rubbing. 

A picture of misery, really. It stings his heart and his lenses buzz as he narrows his eyes for a second, giving into wonderment what could've happened to the girl. There are options, of course there are, but he's not a fan of assumptions.

“What do you say I take you for a swing?” he asks, leaning an inch forward. “It’s really cool up there, you know? Makes you forget about the mundane clutter of daily life. Nobody can see you, nobody can hear. Hm?”

She glares at him for what feels like hours, and finally a tiny smile breaks through the layer of despair. Felicia stares into the distance for a while, as if listing out the pros and cons of agreeing to such a silly idea. 

Louis’ about to add some arguments when she nods and curtly instructs him to turn around so she can jump onto his back.

“Aren't you like… Like more of an ass kicking hero?” she asks, putting on the coat and hopping onto him in one swift move. “Don't you have a bank robbery to take care of or some shit?”

“I'm here to help.” He places his hands underneath her knees to fix her position on his back. “Helping doesn't cut down to stopping cars from crashing and webbing up thieves, Felicia. Sometimes I walk elders to their homes and carry their groceries, then sometimes I jump into buildings on fire, and then I find myself on a tree because for some people it's normal to take cats for a walk through Central Park. It's fun.”

Felicia snorts, circling her arms around Louis’ shoulders.

“Fun.”

“Yeah. Who doesn't like testing a cat's murderous attempts in exchange for saving its life?”

She laughs. “Be thankful they don't take their fishes for a walk.”

Louis hums in agreement.

“Don't jinx it. You might wanna hold tight. And don't scream, please.” He pauses, a hand in the air ready to bring them up. “You seen _Incredibles 2_ yet?”

 

Twenty minutes later they’re sat in a movie theater, big respective boxes of popcorn between their legs, and eyes glued to the screen.

Felicia has managed to braid her hair while Louis was trying to explain the woman in the ticket booth that yes, he's old enough to watch an animated movie for kids, and no, he's not on his cycle, he's just an emotional wreck. After a quick visit in the bathrooms Felicia even gave him a little smile—no light behind it but at least it’s honest.

“I wish I had her ass,” she whispers the moment Helen Parr shows up on the screen. “But then again, I don't want a surgically produced ass, and my own one is bony. Also, laziness.”

“Your ass isn't bony, Felicia.” Louis stuffs his mouth with another handful of popcorn, chews, and swallows. Since he can lift his mask in her company, he's definitely not going to miss out on food. “Do you think if I looked like this dude with a mountain of muscles then the criminals would be scared rather than finding me funny?”

“I think it's the toy-ish onesie that does it.” Felicia snorts. “You've proven yourself strong and all that super enhanced sticky-stuckum stuff, it's all over the internet, but you still look funny as shit in this suit, come on.”

“It's a strategy,” Louis argues, shrugging. “Throws people off.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“There’s the validation I needed. Thank you. I'll remember it when I'm dead and making my haunting list.”

She chuckles and refocuses on the movie.

It's been a while since Louis’ gotten to watch anything since, well. Harry. God, does he miss Harry.

He cracks a smile at the memory of the trivia-stuffed evenings and afternoons with Disney classics, just the classics, and absolutely hilarious, bad movies. If feels like ten years ago that he was able to snuggle up by Harry's side or have Harry nap on his lap. There is an element of surrealism to the fact that he had a good thing by his side for a while and he let go of it himself. The thought knocks a breath or two from his lungs, makes his eyes and nose burn from an upcoming wave of tears that he quickly blinks away.

It's for the best. For Harry's best, most importantly. Harry looks happy. He looks good.  He has friends, a life, one that Louis can’t be a part of.

Yes, Louis’ been looking like he was sucker-punched, yes, everything has been reminding him of Harry, but he's alone, and that was the goal. To be left alone. To avoid dragging anyone into his bullshit. If he can't stop putting on the mask, he has to stop letting people into his life where they can get hurt.

Was he ready to break up with everyone in his life? No. Was it necessary? Yes. Simple maths. Priorities.

He loses track of time and suddenly the lights are blinding him as they are switched on and the movie is finished. _Ouch_.

He's also managed to eat all of his popcorn. When and how, he doesn't know, but damn if his stomach isn't happy to be filled with something akin to a meal.

He pulls the his mask back into place.

“Better?” he drops a question, stepping behind Felicia and trying not to give into anxiety as the other people in the theatre start looking and pointing at him now that he’s no longer hidden in the darkness they found their seats in.

He'd wave them and pose for pictures but he doesn't want to leave Felicia and he doesn't want her in any pap pic. 

“Sort of.” She shrugs, walking out of the screening room.

“Movies always help me pull my mind off things I don't wanna think about. Figured it might work for you as well.” Louis follows her out of the theater, doing his best to not step into her personal space. “How'd you like it?”

“You really wanna talk about the movie?” She stops, turning to face Louis and quirking an eyebrow. “Don't you wanna know why I look like a scarecrow?”

Louis lifts his shoulders, crossing his arms against his chest, and tilts his head to the side. The lenses buzz when he lifts his eyebrows.

“Well. I mean. I mean, you don't—don’t look like a scarecrow.”

She snorts. “Bullshitting ain't really a superhero thing, is it?”

“Okay, you do look like a mess. Objectively.”

“Better.” She gives him a smile, pats his shoulder, and starts walking again Louis quickly joining her side. “It's okay to tell someone they look bad, you know? It's okay to be fair. People don't wanna hear lies. Especially women. We don't wanna hear 'you look beautiful’ when our mascara is smudged, our hair looks like a birds nest and our clothes look like absolute shit. We want to know if we look beautiful to the person we love and trust, not overall. Because overall, we know we look bad. But it only matters that when the people we respect give an opinion, they are honest in their judgment but still consider us beautiful because they know that under that disaster of an exterior there's a person who needs validation. Validation is what we all need, whether we admit it aloud or not. It's human. We just want to be loved, don't we?”

Louis frowns, pressing his lips together in a tight smile that she can't see anyway. He digests the surprisingly articulate tirade.

“I, uh, think so.”

“It's an incurable human condition,” she continues. “Fucked up, but too real to really forget. It keeps on popping up in the dumbest moments. It’s why it hurts the most when your mother doesn't bat an eye when you ask her if she likes your new hair. Or when your dad doesn't even look at you while he’s handing you fifty or two hundred bucks. Or when your boyfriend turns out to be a selfish, abusive bag of rotten assholes and thinks that he can force sex on you because you've always been trying to get everyone's attention and showing too much of your tits.”

Louis stops in his tracks. Blinks. Jogs back to his place by Felicia again.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” She waves a hand. “I appreciate your empathy but don't be sorry. Maybe I earned it. I do look like a slut, after all.”

Louis steps in front of her, almost sending them both stumbling on the sidewalk.

“Hey, hey, hey. Stop it. You do not look like a slut.” He lifts his hands to put them on her shoulders, but recovers, realizing that hey, personal space. So he folds his arms against on chest again. “Slut is a big word, first of all, don't misuse it. Do you dress daringly? Yeah. Does your clothing absolutely not match the weather? Yeah. But women showing skin, showing their bodies, that shouldn't be sexualised. If someone's not capable of grasping the concept of it, then they're total morons, alright? You can go outside stark naked and you're still not asking for sex. You can—You can wear a swimsuit in summer and walk through  Central Park like that, and if someone cannot stop themselves from cat calling or ogling, it's them that something's wrong with, yeah? Respect yourself the way you'd like to be respected, and stop sayin’ you're askin’ for it because your skirt is short. You're not. Am I asking for a quickie because I wear a skintight suit? No. Neither do you by wearing a tank top.”

She hollows her cheeks, sizing him up, eyes narrowed and considering.

Louis thinks he might have gone too far, but then she's hugging him tight, and he automatically wraps his arms around her.

“You'll be fine, I promise you. We've got the rest of our lives to figure out shit. And even if we don't…” He hides his face in the crook of her neck. Even through the mask he gets to fill his lungs with the sweet scent of her most likely overpriced perfume. “What better way is there to live than learning and trying? Just always get back up. Get back up and you'll be fine. Eventually.”

She chuckles, tightening her grip, making Louis’ heart turn to mush. 

“You're an okay guy, Louis.”

He responds with silence.

It's not until some guy whistles at them from the other side of the road that he realizes he's been hugging the girl for far longer than it’s considered normal. Whatever that normal is.

“Walk you home?” he suggests, detaching himself from her.

She doesn’t fight a cocky grin, one that finally has her heart in it. “Chivalry.”

“No horse, miss, only webs.”

She tugs the corners of her lips down, looking up and pretending to consider the offer.

“Guess it'd be a shame to look a gift spider in the pincers. Now turn around so I can ride it properly, my knight in shining spandex.”

The words sting in a way they shouldn't. Knight in shining spandex. Seems like a century ago.

“Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

 

felicia, 11:44 PM

won't tell anyone btw. 

 

11:46 PM

about my pincers?

 

felicia, 11:49 PM

about the butt pads.

 

11:52 PM

thank you. hmu if you need someone to hang out with

 

felicia, 11:55 PM

i'll remember.

 

felicia, 11:58 PM

it's good to have you, spidey. good to have someone who cares.

 

He can't shake off the feeling of unease. Then again, unease has become a roommate of his at this point.

 

**April the 13th, Friday**

 

It's a testament to Louis' gradually accumulating experience that the sudden churning in his stomach and thudding in his head as it kick-starts into sixth gear as soon as he steps out of the subway don’t even have him hissing in pain. 

He looks around, trying to locate the source of upcoming danger, but the station doesn't look out of its usual order. Same people he sees daily, students from his school, some kids, adults, elders, the same two policemen, the same guy with shih-tzu on a leash. No sign of danger.

He takes his steps warily, looking out for trouble, maybe a scream or sudden movements. Absolutely nothing happens, and the spider-sense loosens a bit, although it’s still sending the danger signal to all his nerves.

It’s probably gone bonkers. Louis wouldn’t blame it. He hasn’t slept in fifty three hours. Fifty four?

“Guess just a headache,” he sighs, kicking a stair before starting to climb up the main door of the school.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Niall’s bike by the bike racks. A familiar sting cuts through his heart, but he brushes it off.

Hungry, sleep deprived, and with glitchy spider-sense, Louis steps into the building, fitting into the flood of students.

Two seconds after walking into the building he senses tension in the hall. Something is off in the atmosphere and the air is thick with it, almost as though it knows that some shit went down and it doesn’t want to say what it was. Either that or Louis is recognising a change in an unconsciously created pattern. He once heard someone say that it’s when a pattern—a routine—is broken, that’s when you lose your shit, and he’s starting to understand that now.

He frowns, mustering up some curiosity to actually look for the source of the tension. Everything seems to be in and out of place at once, the students walking and flowing through the halls with their usual rhythm, papers being shifted, a book falling onto the floor, the coffee automat buzzing and hissing in order to indicate its service coming to an end.

It's fine and it's not fine.

The crowd shifts and he notices Liam.

His chest tightens. “Oh, no. _Nononono_.”

He's seen Liam crying. God, he's seen Liam weeping and smearing snot all over his sweaters. He's seen Liam at the lowest and highest points, everywhere in between. He’s known him mad and happy, and disappointed and relieved, he's seen Liam laugh ‘til his lungs give out and sob himself to sleep. He's thought he's seen it all.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Liam stops in his tracks once his eyes lie on Louis. The backpack that's been loosely hanging on his shoulder hits the ground in almost slow motion, and half a second later Louis has an armful of his best friend bawling into his ear, every word incomprehensible, every inhale broken and choked out.

Louis reciprocates the hug swaying them sideways a little, his hand wandering up and down on Liam's back.

“Shh, I'm here, 'm here,” he whispers loud enough for Liam to hear it, completely ignoring the stares they're getting. “I’ve got you. Let it out.”

Liam catches a trembling breath and fails to answer. His body's convulses with every new wave of tears, hands desperately clutching wherever he can reach on the back of Louis’ jacket.

It's like a decade later that he drops a word in between his whimpers. A word, then two, one of them a name, and it's enough for the pattern to be broken.

Louis’ had a routine. School, beating bad people up, homework in the little breaks. A nap or two when possible. Exhaust himself till he wouldn't have to think. Once in a while, meet that one person who makes his life a shade brighter.

Louis’ had a routine, even if it hasn't seemed like it. He’s known what to expect, what to do, where to go. Even if his mind maygo offline sometimes and he'd feel lost, he had some tech around his wrists and a mask. He’s adjusted to everything that has been thrown at him, he made his choice, he lived with it.

He hasn't expected there to be a day it would all go to hell. He should have, nothing lasts forever.

He's never stormed through the Midtown High halls faster. He stumbles, heedless fury increasing with every second. He couldn't care less about grace, not when hell just broke loose and he's not one to let it expand.

Before anyone can complain about his violent attitude, he's got fistfuls of Nick Grimshaw's hoodie and elbows dug deep under his ribs, spine backed up against the wall.

The shit eating grin evaporates the second Nick's eyes find his.

“There's a special place in hell for a bag of turds like you, Grimshaw,” Louis growls, stiffening a bit at the uncharacteristically low tone of his voice. For the first time, his alter ego is speaking without a layer of kevlar spandex. Chin up, eyes sharp, focused, not a single cell of his body hinting at any underlying nervousness, at the shy and non-combative demeanor that Louis Tomlinson carries everywhere. “There's a special place for homophobic, arrogant, snobbish, fucked in the head assholes like you. I hope you'll rot in there, I really do, Nick. I'd gladly watch you turn to shit.”

Nick struggles in the grasp, feet seeking for more stability. His eyes are wide, surprised and moving around rapidly as if looking for ways to free himself. He swallows, clenching his fingers on Louis’ steel wrists.

His heartbeat picks up the moment he sees the wordless question in Louis’ glare. _Why?_

 “It was an accident… Just a joke, I swear,” he chokes out. “Just a fucking joke, dude, fucking Christ—”

Louis digs his elbows deeper, earning himself a cry. A thought crosses his mind that there are people gathered around them at this point, but he finds himself not giving the smallest crap about it.

"Ok, now listen up, sweetheart, ‘cause I’ll say it only once. It's come to the point where you listen to me, and you'll listen carefully. Here's the news: you're _nobody_ .” He draws Nick lower, closer to his face. He instantly misses the barrier that his mask always supplies him with. “You're just a homophobic, spite driven jerk who thinks he can do everything and anything he wants. I'm tired of you and your sick attitude towards life. I’m _tired_ of _you_. Of your holier-than-thou shit, of your everything. What the hell is your problem? What, mommy didn't read you to sleep? Daddy didn't buy you a treehouse, didn't play ball with you? Whatever it was, you're not allowed to take it out on living creatures. You’re not. Find yourself a hobby that doesn't require mockery and fists, because you leave this school and you're nothing but a daddy's Armani boy who doesn't know how to wipe his ass on his own.”

He sets his jaws tighter at the tears prickling and blurring his sight, making sure each word is transferred through the locked eye contact he's got no intention of breaking.

“You're absolute trash, Nick. Worst piece of garbage I've ever seen. And now, let's establish one thing. Just the one, just to not get you confused. I let you go, and you walk away from here to have a thought or a hundred about your misery. Touch my friend again, touch _anyone_ again, do harm, mock, or call out, and I'll _rip your balls off_. That clear? If I manage to find them, of course.”

There are whispers echoing in Louis’ ear, his name repeated over and over, someone tugging on his shoulder, but he doesn’t look away and neither does Nick.

He loosens his grip only when his eyes begin to water and the rage threatens to take better of him. Nick’s feet land on the floor with a thump.

He turns to walk away and run after Liam when Nick sniffles contemptuously.

“Fucking hell, Tomlinson, you really are a nutjob.”

It takes only a quarter of a second for Louis’ elbow to connect with the side of Nick’s skull, and double that for said skull to hit against the wall. Hard enough to nearly knock him out, not enough to crack the bone.

He stares as Nick collapses, limp and whimpering, rage boiling in every cell of his body, and goes for a kick for good measure but the moment he makes a move he's being restrained in a blood choke. Not a lethal one—there’s purpose in the amount of strength that’s not enough to prevent his blood flood to the head, but steel enough to hold Louis in place and have him take two sharp breaths through his nose. He recognizes the smell immediately.

“What the fuck, Harry, let go of me,” he grunts, but allows the boy to drag him backwards, away from Nick.

When Harry doesn't react and the crowd becomes too much for Louis’ unprotected by his consciousness senses, he grabs Harry's wrist and elbow and pulls them away from his throat with inhuman strength, not caring an ounce about how it looks.

“Don’t you fucking touch me. I said _let go of me,_ for fuck's sake, are you deaf?” He shifts his jaws—teeth grinding, the corners of his mouth and nostrils twitching—and gets away from Harry, the remains of his sanity putting enough care in his action that his hand lands on the wall above Harry's hip, the plaster and paint crunching underneath the ball of his hand as he aggressively thrusts his body forward.

He turns just to take a look at the dent he made with one simple pressure he put on the wall. The sight mixed with gasps and stares causes his blood to rush in his ears and eyes sting with tears.

“Get away from me, Harry,” he croaks out through the lump in his throat, taking rapid steps back, one after another, eyes lamdong one last time on Nick whining at the base of the wall.

He stumbles, brushes it off, and storms down the hall through the crowds of annoyed students. The bell rings, echoing in Louis’ ears and worsening his already unbearable, pulsing headache.

Liam. He’s got to get to Liam.

He makes it to the corner of a wall lined with lockers and a second later he's being smashed against the cold metal with one precise, swift move.

He bounces off the locker and leans against it, breathing heavily, as a hand curls around his wrist to hold him in place. “Which part of don't touch me don't you understand?”

“What is going _on_ with you?” Harry asks with emphasis on each word. He lets go of Louis’ wrist and folds his arms against his chest.

Louis refuses to look at him, head turned to the side, eyes stuck on nothing in particular. The rage in his stomach is still boiling, hands shaking a little, jaws tight. He draws his arms up to his chest and crosses them.

_He’s not the one to blame and you know it. Get your shit together._

“You're gonna be late,” he murmurs in a voice as devoid of emotion as he can muster up, pushing off the lockers and swinging his arms behind his back, and then shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans in an ostensibly casual manner. “Evans hates it when people are late. You should go.”

 _I told you to go_.

Harry doesn’t seem impressed by his coldness.

“Can you stop avoiding me for a second there, Louis? Can you just look at me? I'd very much like it if you looked at me, it's not that hard.”

With tears stuck in his throat, Louis does as asked.

“Happy?” he sneers. “Can I go now? Or do you want me to pose for you now, Jack? Gotta warn you, though, I’m too shy to go nude just like that. At least for free.”

“You're not making any fucking sense. What is your goal here?” Harry's eyes are wary, paying zero attention to Louis’ attempts to push him away. “To get everyone to leave you? Why do you want everyone out of your life so much? It's not healthy, Lou, humans are social creatures, a mind like yours should be able to grasp onto that concept.”

“What if I'm not...” _...human_. “What if I don't want to? I know it may sound alien to you, but some people need space.”

“What you're doing is flying to another fucking galaxy, this is not about space or me time. Care to explain what your deal is? Last chance. If you want to leave, be my guest, but at least be honest about it, man the fuck up.”

Louis opens his mouth to bite back, to snark and make Harry hate him more, to push him _away_ , but all he can do is stare into the eyes that took his rejection with cold blood and are now waiting for nothing but a simple explanation.

He’s about to start some incomprehensible babble about how he’d like to go home when Harry asks a question that Louis really hoped he’d never have to answer to. 

“When you said you wanted me to go, did you really want me to go?”

He blinks at the change of topic, and recovers quickly enough to avoid letting his emotions flash across his face.

It’s a short response, short to the point of his voice not even getting a chance to break.

“I did.”

Harry nods. “So you don't like me?”

“Of course I like you. We’re—We used to be friends.”

“Louis.”

Louis bites on the inside of his cheek, studying the boy.

He looks so painfully young like that, with his hair pulled back by the ridiculous polka dots scarf, cherry colored lips, milky skin, and a flannel tied around his hips. He doesn’t look like someone who’s gone through all the shit that he told Louis about, he doesn’t look tough or brave. He’s just a guy, a young guy, standing in front of another guy, trying to figure out the simplest thing by asking simple questions. 

Louis digs his fingers into the lockers, the metal screeching under the pressure.

He shakes his head. 

“I don't.”

Harry's eyebrows quirk up, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You don't,” he tastes the words, pushing out his cheek with his tongue.

"Hazza—”

"Don't fucking _Hazza_ me right now,” he clips. “Don’t you _dare_. You don't get to call me that.”

And then Louis breaks. He doesn’t know what does it—the growing anger that Harry is trying so hard to mask, the fact that Harry is even _trying_ to mask his emotions, Louis’ physical and mental exhaustion, or just the combination of everything in general, all the inconveniences and events that have piled up and put him on the verge of going insane. Whatever it is, he bursts out with fast but quiet words.

“Everyone I cared about died,” he slurs, curling his hands into fists. “Everyone I loved, they left, and everyone I want to be with me passed away. I can't go through that again, Harry, I can't. I lost my parents, then my uncle, and I fucking miss them _every damn day_. I wake up—I miss them, I go to school and I miss them. Are you—Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to just _give_ _up_ and join them? How many times I cried because Jay’s _all alone_ because of _me_? Me, do you get that? And I have to look her in the eye with a that blame she doesn't know shit about. And I don’t know what to do, I fuckin’ don't, 'cause if I lose her too, I might as well go with her. My point is, I lose the ones I want to stay the most. And I don’t want to lose _you_ , do you understand? I don’t want to…” He swallows, the lump in his throat cracking his another voice into a broken whisper. “I can't risk you.”

Harry stares, his eyes examining Louis' face like it's the first time he sees it. Or the last. The anger he’s tried to mask now flickers in his eyes uncovered and fully on display for Louis’ heart to see. 

And then he nods. And again. And again, until he’s just standing there, nodding slightly more to himself than to Louis, tongue pushing out his cheek, nostrils flaring. He takes a shallow breath, building another layer of the shield keeping his emotions away from sight.

“Well then, if that’s the case, it’s good to know I'll be perfectly fine, then,” he says with one last look at Louis and flashes him a smile, a bright one. Despite the fogged hurt in his eyes, it’s a sincere, good-luck kind of a smile. “Have a good day, Louis. Take care.”

And then he's two, ten, twenty steps away, and Louis wants to run after him so much it almost hurts. Instead, he smashes the lockers, swallows a sob, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, even though no tear threatens to fall out of them soon, and takes in a shaky lungful.

When he turns to leave, he’s met with another face.

_Come on. Dress me down. Yell at me. Ask what the fuck that was._

“Come on, say something,” he croaks out in an unintentional whisper, and his eyes actually water this time as stands here under his best friend’s eyes full of disbelief. “Please.”

Niall opens his mouth, closes it, stares for what feels like an hour. And then throws a punch.

Louis could dodge it. He could, no problem.

He takes the hit, bounces off the locker, and slides down it to the ground, keeping his blurred vision anchored on Niall’s shrinking figure.

 

One hand in Liam's hair, fingertips gently scratching the boy's skull, the other on Liam's phone, Louis types in the password. 

At first sight, there's nothing wrong. Same plain white background, organized icons, and way too grammatically correct contacts list. The view is greeted with a tiny smile which disappears as soon as it tugs on Louis’ lips.

 

Mom, 7:56 AM

You have an hour to get your things. Give the keys to Marie. 

 

He suppresses the urge to smash the phone on the closest wall, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds. Breathe in, and out, in, out.

Once he's more or less sure that he won't destroy Liam's property, he glances back down at the screen and starts flipping through the apps, avoiding the ones that could be private. He starts off with the settings and clears the unused part of the phone's memory, then goes through the folder with brain training games, and on a final note he taps on the gallery icon.

His face falls after three seconds of flipping pictures.

He's missed a lot. He knew he's missed a lot, but he hasn't realized how much. 

The smile from ten seconds ago crawls back onto Louis face again accompanied by a single tear he allows to slide down his cheek tracing a line along his throat before stopping somewhere over the neckline of his sweater.

From the phone, Zayn grins up at him, eyes squinted, teeth on display, nose crinkled. It's a joyous smile, soft, gentle and a bit contagious. A little bit in love. Probably with the guy snuggled into his side, nose tucked under Zayn's chin, lips pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, the hint of a smile on his lips.

A lump grows in Louis’ throat at the thought that he's missed out on his friend experiencing his first relationship. His first fucking _kiss_. And considering the fact that the picture was clearly taken in a bed, chances are maybe something more.

He locks the phone and blindly puts it on his bedside table. 

He turns his head on the pillow and takes in Liam's property scattered in the daylight of the room—three backpacks, one suitcase, and a laptop bag. All they considered important and useful enough to take away from the Payne's household. 

Liam hasn’t shown emotion since he stopped sobbing and walked into the train with Louis. If it wasn’t for the red, puffy eyes and the expression on his face that has stayed a combination of wrenched and expressionless you wouldn’t know that he had just gone through trauma. He hasn’t laughed, and didn’t respond to Louis suggestion that they should go to his, but didn’t argue or protest either. As worrying as the disembodiment is, Louis’ fine with him falling asleep for now. They can worry later.

Lulled by Liam's steady breath fanning through the material of his shirt on his chest and the rhythmic, steady beat of his heart, Louis gives into his own need for recovery and an emotional break, eyes fluttering shut, fighting against the urge to put on the suit and go after police sirens.

He taps the earpiece twice, turning it off, and snuggles back into Liam.

 

 

The first thing they do after waking up is tidy. No words seemed to be needed—Liam got out of the bed, started picking up Louis’ dirty socks, and Louis joined him, sparing him his usual 'sweet housewife’ comment.

It's an old routine Louis’ begun to forget about. Liam hasn't been to his in ages.

He’s grateful, to say the least. He's too angry to cry, too angry to actually be angry, too angry to fall back to sleep or even stay in one place for longer than five seconds. Liam's familiar habit of tidying up while helping to calm Louis also does wonders for his room which has fallen into a state of disrepair in the past couple of weeks.

They work in sync, well practiced movements around the room as Britney Spears plays in the background from Louis’ phone, organising books, changing sheets, throwing  trash into a bag Liam brought from the kitchen. Neither of them touches Louis’ backpack, a firm rule known to everyone in Louis immediate circle. 

Jay comes back around three—Louis and Liam greeting her from the kitchen where they’re now making dinner.

She doesn't ask any questions, informed beforehand by Louis’ text that Liam would be sleeping over. She simply kisses their cheeks, grabs a slice of tomato, and disappears around the corner to get her usual post double shift nap.

“We should probably go to school,” Liam says, speaking for just the second time since they have entered the apartment. His voice is heartbreakingly monotone. “Tomorrow. We're so screwed for the absences today.”

Louis winces, putting his cup on the countertop and turning off the coffee machine. “This is literally on top of the list of things we should be avoiding at all cost.”

“School year isn't over yet,” Liam argues, turning off the heat under the sauce for their spaghetti. “We’ve still got high school to graduate from in case you forgot.”

“Oh, we will. For now, tho’, I suggest we eat dinner, watch _The Hitman's Bodyguard_ , and discuss who takes the top bunk from now on.”

“You can't possibly think I'm gonna stay here forever.”

Louis walks around him, puts the milk back into the fridge, and leans against its front.

“Not forever, temporarily.” He studies Liam as he puts their dinner into bowls. “There's no way I'm letting you sleep out on the streets. Jay won’t have a problem with it either, and even if I didn't have a bunk bed I’d let you snuggle up with me.”

“I wouldn't sleep on the streets, I'm not a dog.”

They take their dinner to the living room and settle on the couch. Louis grabs the remote, brings one knee up to his chest where he rests his cup, turns the TV on, and only then digs into his meal.

“I don't care what you are, a dog, a bird, gay or alien, I'm not letting you nap on cold sidewalks. Or in hotels, shut up.”

Liam hums in response, mouth full with food.

Apparently deciding it is best not to argue more, he doesn't protest when Louis switches to Nickelodeon.

They eat in a silence filled with SpongeBob’s jokes rather than the serious conversation they should probably be having about Liam and his future. It feels like Liam's followed Louis’ favourite coping mechanism and prefers to act like nothing's happened. Which, in all honesty—not good. Liam's never been one to forgo urgent discussions nor does he brush his problems under the rug, especially the ones related to his person.

So to see him simply dismiss the fact that he's just been kicked out of his house and treat it like a nonexistent issue he can just shrug off doesn’t sit right with Louis.

Why does Liam not care? Does he _really_ not care? Louis’ known for long that Liam doesn't want to live with his parents, never has, but they're still his parents. He's just received  a single, cold message telling him to pack his things and never come back, he's still just a teenager that's been tossed out into the streets by the people who are supposed to love him the most.

Louis doesn't get it, but doesn't push. He himself wouldn't like to be questioned, he'd close himself off, perhaps. It's not the healthiest way to live, but it's not like he has ever made any healthy life choices.

Once their dishes are empty and lying on the coffee table, and another utterly unbearable cartoon starts playing, Louis entwines his fingers on his stomach and turns his head to have a better look on Liam.

If he's not getting answers to what he wants to know first, he might as well ask about the other thing.

“Were you ever going to tell us?” he asks carefully, already kicking himself for not specifying the question.

Liam doesn't need him to clarify what he's asking about.

“Niall knew. And I wanted to tell you,” comes the sad admission. He starts to play with the hem of his shirt. “But you've seemed so distant recently. I figured you had your own stuff going on. Niall told me you don't want anyone around, so I respected that. If I wanted space, I wouldn't want anyone knocking on my door every five minutes.”

 _Distant_. That's one way to describe the way he cut everyone off to live in his own sad little world. 

Louis nods, more to himself than to Liam.

“I'm sorry I haven't been there for you recently.” The moment he catches Liam's eyes he thinks t moving in his seat may have been a bad idea. He doesn't handle eye contact well. “Some stuff happened and it hit me in a way I, uh… I expected them to, frankly, you know, but I thought I'd scramble out of it nice and quick. And I didn't. It's, uh, I… I mean—”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me, Lou.” Liam nudges him, a sympathetic smile creeping into the corners of his lips. “Like I know we're basically babies in the grand scheme of things, but people have problems whether they're six or seventy six and they all have the right to feel bad. Anyone can feel like they need to have a moment, take a step back. I probably should have come by and checked on you or at least asked myself, but Niall made it crystal clear you don't want any help. Refused to take it, even. I had my own thing going on, anyway, I was, uh—” He blinks, glancing away. A blush creeps onto his cheeks. “I mean, you know that. You just asked. Yeah.”

Louis’ grin may not have any actual emotion behind it, but he tries anyway.

“You look sweet together.” He pokes Liam's thigh with his knuckles, warmth spreading in his chest. “I'm happy for you. For the finally dating and being all lovey dovey part, not for the textbook example of homophobic parents reacting to their son being gay scenario. For the latter I'm very sorry, actually. But we'll get through this, alright?”

“You said we will. Five gays in one apartment and all that. You promised.”

Louis winces at the word. “Guess we gotta adopt your boyfie now, don't we? If he makes you happy, then we're all safe and sound.”

Liam nods shyly, hands wandering up to rub his shoulders. “He does.”

“Will I ever hear how it happened, though?” Louis pushes himself off the couch and starts collecting their dishes. “I need to have stories to tell my children when I want them to fall asleep, man, so you better provide all of the details.”

Liam follows him into the kitchen and grabs the towel hanging by the dishwasher. He leans against the counter and watches Louis begin to wash the dishes.

“It was the Monday before Valentine's, I think, before the party at Gwen's,” he says with a pinch of melancholy. “You shot out like of school like it was on fire, Niall and Harry found me in the halls and asked if I wanted to go and try out the new Mexican food stand a couple blocks away from school. I had a bit of time on my hands, as usual on Mondays, so I agreed. Zayn turned out to be invited over as well.” He pauses, beginning to pick up the plates from the dish rack. “We didn't hit off that day, he had this narcissistic thing going on I didn't like, but then we bumped into each other at Gwen's, and he apologized for his asshole-ish behaviour. And since he was really nice about it, I agreed to leave the party with him. We walked all the way back to my—” He pauses abruptly. “To where I lived. We didn't necessarily click in the first couple of minutes, but when we did, it felt… I don't know. Kind of like with you and Niall, but with more sweaty hands and bad jokes serving as pick up lines. We only started a thing like, I don’t know, at the end of February I think.”

Louis waits patiently for Liam to continue, but he never does. They finish the dishes work and Louis’ handed a clean towel. Once his hands are dry, he jumps on the counter by Liam's side.

“You suck at tellin’ stories.”

“Just telling you what happened.” Liam shrugs.

“Yeah, boring.” Louis rolls his eyes and yawns ostensibly. “For example, Niall and I first met when we were abducted by aliens. We had to fight our way out of their wicked spaceship with Niall’s broken hand and my sprained ankle, and I couldn't find the exit, and all while this was happening, _Toxic_ played in the background despite the lack of any speakers. Then we found a pod which was ridiculously pink, we flew our asses back to Earth, and buried the pod under Niall's dad's garage.”

Liam snorts. “That's just bullshit.”

“Yeah, but it sounds more interesting than drooling over pictures of Ryan Reynolds in the daylight of primary school times.”

“Only daylight?”

“We didn't have jacking off sessions if that's the question,” Louis laughs emptily. “I refuse to even picture that. Okay, too late, and it's absolutely your fault. I hope you got an insurance.”

Liam breathes out a chuckle and moves a bit to catch Louis’ eyes. His expression segues from shy and flustered to sad and worried.

“You look tired, Louis.”

“I'm not,” Louis responds far too quickly, almost biting his tongue in the process. He clears his throat, looking away, licks the inner side of his teeth, bites on his lower lip. “I'm not tired. Just the usual finals-are-coming thing, you know, have to study is all.”

The second he ends the last sentence he has to force his hand to stay in place and not slap him in the face. He’s one step away from claiming he needs help with secondary school-level maths.

Liam turns out smarter than pushing like Niall or Harry did. Instead of nagging and using more or less on-point arguments to have him talk, Liam sighs, walks up to him, ruffles his hair, and draws him into a tight hug.

Louis tries to prevent himself from giving into how much he needs the contact to the point where his eyes start stinging with tears. His hand ends up patting Liam's back despite the desperate desire to dig his fingers into the boy's flesh and crush him in an even stronger, needy embrace.

It's in that moment that it dawns on him that the routine has been really broken—his walls are cracking, the reality has become blurry. For the first time since he fell into his new life, he’s scared of tomorrow.

Liam slides his hand up and down a final time and steps away. He opens his mouth but before he makes a single sound he's cut off by knocking on the front door.

He glances over his shoulder and than back at Louis, quirking an eyebrow. “You expecting guests?”

Louis shakes his head, brows knitting in confusion. He doesn’t recognize the knocking.

“Maybe Jay is.”

He rubs the thin layer of sweat from his hands against his trackies and crosses the living room. Giving his friend one last confused look, he searches for any sign of his danger sense going off before opening the door.

His hand tightens dangerously on the doorframe as he shifts all his body weight on one leg. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Nick screws his face in distaste. “Swearing’s really not a good look on you.”

“How about my elbow looking good on your face again, how’s that sound? I can always try the other one if the first time didn’t really fit well enough, make sure your face gets acquainted with the ceiling.”

The retort ends on a lower note when he notices the remains of the aggression he manifested a couple of hours ago. A mix of pride and regret pools in Louis’ stomach at the sight of the sizeable, violet bruise on Nick’s cheekbone that crinkles when Nick rolls his eyes and makes this kind of a face that has Louis’ nerves boil over again.

“Look, I just want to talk to—Oh. Hey.”

“I thought you'd be happier to see me,” comes the snarky reply from somewhere behind Louis’ back.

“I think you should go.” Louis begins to close the door, but Nick's hand pushes back on it.

Nick dips his chin up. “I want to talk with Liam.”

Louis squints his eyes, not believing the audacity. “What the fuck is wrong with you? He doesn't want to talk with—”

A crunching sound makes him shiver in the slightest as Nick’s jaw twitches before he cuts in. “What about we ask him what he wants?”

“There's no 'we’, dickface, get out of my apartment.”

“Let him talk, Louis.” Liam's hand squeezes Louis’ shoulder reassuringly. “It can't get worse than it already is, right?”

Louis doesn’t drop his eyes from Nick. “He's just gotten you kicked out of home.”

“I’ve had people making decisions for me since the day I was born. Don’t be one of them.”

A couple of seconds pass before Louis even realizes that Liam’s approached the door, and then he’s nodding, forcing a calmer expression on his face.

“You've got one shot on this.” He releases the grip on the doorframe. “Five minutes. You better not waste them.”

The nervous jerk of the head that Nick gives Louis is nowhere near looking like a nod but Louis takes it as one and lets him in anyways. He’ll manage the guy if things go south, even if that means using tools he’s not supposed to use maskless. He doesn’t even bat an eye at Nick glancing around the apartment, at this point not giving a damn about what the posh boy thinks about his place. He follows the guest and Liam to the kitchen where he leans against the fridge and keeps his eyes trained on both of them in case he needs to intervene. Or punch someone. Please, let him punch someone.

Liam stops in the middle of the room and folds his arms against his chest in a clear attempt to look confident, but the way he hunches and struggles to keep his head up not only ruins the effect but also makes Louis want to hug him and snuggle under the fluffiest blanket.

Meanwhile Nick looks more out of place than Giselle kicked out to New York. He fidgets for a couple of seconds before settling on digging his hands deep into the pockets of his fancy jacket, shoulders going up and then back down. He puffs out a long breath and looks down in something Louis would dare to call shame. It makes him shift where he's standing and frown as Nick starts talking.

“I think I should start with saying sorry,” he says in a weird voice. Almost like he cares. “It was supposed to be a joke. I sorta thought that your folks—-that they, you know, were aware of... That you're dating that dude.” He scratches the back of his head and mimics Liam's pose, curling into himself and refusing to look in the direction of the person who he’s just gotten kicked out of home. “I guess I was just mad ‘cause my dad, he… I—I was just angry and felt like humiliating someone. Which, of course, that doesn't make it any better. You were right by the way.”

It takes a while for Louis to realize that Nick's eyes are on him now. He blinks, nose scrunching in confusion..

“Hm?”

“You were right.” Nick shrugs, darting his gaze back to the floor. “I have no right treat people the way I do just because I don't have it as easy as you think I do. You know, just because I have issues it doesn't mean I can take it out on other people. I guess... crossing a line and making someone lose a roof over their head was what it took to make me realize that I was being a selfish asshole. Still am, probably, but I wanna make up for it. I don't need you… I don’t want you to, uh. I don't need your forgiveness or whatever. I just want you to know that I'm sorry and I want to fix it.”

That peaks Louis’ interest. He tilts his head, waiting for Liam's reaction.

Liam is now full on glaring at Nick in barely suppressed fury and something that keeps him from bursting out. His eyes seem to be looking for the punchline of a joke at his expense, but—just like Louis—he doesn’t seem to find one.He straightens up, rolling his hunched shoulders back.

“You’re lucky you said the right words,” he says afterseven breaths—Louis’ counted—making Nick snap his head up and meet Liam's eyes. “I don't like being burdened by negative emotions and thoughts with high probability of ruining my mood. I've had enough of them where I used to live. So it's forgiven. It's alright. I'll be okay.”

Nick looks as dumbfounded as Louis, even though Louis would be the first one to describe Liam as a humble and a no-hard-feelings kind of a guy. He just didn't think that this particular character trait would go as far as forgiving someone… _this_.

“Thank you,” Nick’s voice drops an octave lower.

“Just don't screw it up, okay?” A smile tugs on Liam's lips, eyes going soft. “You've got one life, Nick, and you've already spent half of it being an ass. You can do better than that. Don't waste your life.”

The long stare Nick sends him in response brings quiet to the apartment. There's close to no tension between any of them, but Louis being Louis still feels like coughing and interrupting the conversation, so that’s what he does. He has no time for cheesy apologies and movie-like gazes, he’s a busy guy.

“I'mma be honest here and admit I thought your head was so far up your ass you didn't even notice someone losing home because of you. I'm glad to discover I was wrong for once.”

An exasperated sigh is better than a bite back but it looks weird on Nick and it’ll probably take some time to get used to.

“Thanks,” he says, tilting his head to give Louis a tentative but genuine smile. “About time I got my shit together, isn’t it?”

Louis puffs his cheeks, shrugging. “A couple of years back wouldn't be so bad either.”

“Always cheeky, Tomlinson.”

“It's Louis.” He draws out a hand.

Nick shakes it, eyes wide and mouth beginning to fall agape.

“I'm sorry for all I've done to you for what it’s worth.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “You didn't deserve any of it.”

“I may not be as forgiving as—” Louis pauses, fingers curling into his palm, eyes stuck on nothing in particular as he swallows the scraps of his pride. He takes a deep breath to stop the sudden tears from gathering up behind his eyelids. “I've… I’ve done some horrible things, too.”

“Pretty sure not as much as me.”

The sight of Harry's stern eyes flashes through Louis’ head. All the days he's found Jay sit alone in the apartment. The sharp pain as Niall’s fist met his face.

“You'd be surprised.”

Nick frowns, but doesn't question the words. Instead, he loosens his shoulders and looks back at Liam.

“My parents have a couple of apartments in New York that they either rent or don't use at all. You can stay in one as long as you like. They won’t even notice.”

It’s Louis’ turn to stare. At Nick, then at Liam, and back again, and he finally blinks.

“I beg your pardon?” He squints, checking for any sign of a cruel gag he and Liam are being pulled into. He desperately tries to find the tiniest shade of malice in Nick’s eyes, in his body language, in his tone as he puts it on replay in his head. Nothing. “I swear to God, if you’re pulling some bullshit right now, I’ll actually break your arm and feed you dogshit.”

Nick doesn’t miss a beat, giving him another distasteful look.

“Violence really doesn’t suit you, you know?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“As lovely as that visual is, I can’t take you up on that offer, Nick, no matter how true you are in your intentions,” Liam interjects. He walks up to Louis to rest on the counter by his side leaning into him slightly.

Nick follows him with his eyes and turns to face them both. “Why not?”

“It’s too much. I’ll manage. I have my most important things, some money, and friends. I’ll be fine.”

“But I’m offering you a place where you could stay for as long as you want to and not pay a dollar for it. I owe you this.”

“I don’t want you to owe me.” Liam shakes his head. “If there’s anyone you owe anything, it’s the students you’ve bullied for many years. Even Louis. You did one wrong thing by me, just one.”

“But it got you kicked out of home,” Nick argues, suddenly more stern. “Look, Liam—Can I call you Liam? You didn’t deserve any of this. I should not have done what I did. I’m not telling you I owe you because I _think_ I owe you. I owe you because my shenanigans cost you a roof over your head. I owe you ‘cause your… ‘Cause you tried to keep something a secret and I blatantly spread it around like the world’s biggest asshole, and almost got your wrist sprained in the process. I had no respect towards your privacy, I made you cry, I made Louis get mad enough he started swearing and used violence against me. Which, by the way, I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be an alien right now after all of that. No offense.” He casts Louis a short, odd look. “I’m not saying you’re obliged to take an apartment from me, or that you need to have it because I think you aren’t able to get by on your own. It’s the opposite, actually, but my point is, I _want_ you to have an apartment. I want to pay your bills. I want it not to feel better about myself, but to have _you_ feel better and safer, and not worry about—about your folks, and school or any of it. And I know it’s not gonna fix what happened. I don’t think anything can fix it. But if I can help, and I don’t, I’ll feel like the worst piece of shit for the rest of my life.”

Louis finds himself ogling like a three-year-old who’s just witnessed two people make out on a bench in a park. He blinks rapidly, getting rid of whatever expression he’s wearing. He looks at Liam just to find him equally dumbfounded and drifts his gaze back to Nick.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I, to be honest.” Nick shrugs and lowers his eyes sheepishly, something akin to blush creeping onto his cheeks. “As I said, about time I got my crap together.”

Louis nods, nonplussed, the babysitter in him showing up for a second when he says, “I’m proud of you.”

Nick raises his brows and blinks, showing no sign of comprehension for a second or two.  It’s as he can see him waiting for the coming punchline that Louis realizes nobody's ever said those words to Nick, and his heart breaks a little.

“Thanks.” Nick looks up at Liam, with hope and apologies written all over his face. “So… The one in Jamaica Hills has jacuzzi and clap-clap lights.”

 

It’s not like life nowadays isn’t weird.

Aliens from outer space, superhumans, sorcerers, underground organisations craving to take over the world for no good reason other than power (whatever that means). Louis himself can’t really speak about oddness—after all, he’s climbing walls with his bare hands on a daily basis.

Nevertheless, sitting in a shining, posh Audi, and discussing favorite celebs with Nick Grimshaw after dropping Liam off and helping him settle in a new flat, one supplied by the same individual who this morning outed Liam to his parents via a text message with an attached photo—that tops the list of weird things that Louis’ seen and gone through. 

“RDJ, to be honest, he’s my man.” Nick sighs dreamily, picking up their conversation from where it paused when he focused on one particularly difficult intersection. “The dude’s like wine, he just gets better and better with each passing year.”

“Yeah, he’s hot,” Louis agrees, fiddling with the radio and his pad because he can’t take the news anymore. Spider-Man this, Spider-Man that, he gets it, he’s way more active than ever, but to talk about it daily on the news? Come on. “Is this weird? I’m like eighteen, and he’s fifty. Is this weird to say an old guy is hot?”

“I think that as long as you don’t think of fucking him then nope. It’s just a subjective statement, a fact.” Nick honks at some asshole who doesn’t appear to grasp on the concept of green lights.

“I think you’re right. Speaking of old dudes, my heart fully belongs to Ryan Reynolds.”

“What about Chris Evans?

“Strong six.”

“Out of six?”

“Out of twenty.”

“Channing Tatum? But, like, early two-thousands.”

“Now you made me want to watch _Step Up_ , thanks for that.” He opens the Spotify app.

“What about _She's The Man_?”

“Watched that one with…” He stops in his movements, the name stuck in his throat.

“Harry?” Nick's voice is low and surprisingly caring.

Louis nods, his neck now stiff from sudden stress. “Yeah.”

“What happened to you two? You looked like you were married and then you pull _22 Jump Street_. Same with Niall.”

“Tom Holland.”

“You’re deflecting which means you either hurt them—”

“Ross Lynch.”

“—or they hurt you, but the latter is less probable since people treat you too right, you're too pretty for them to hurt you. So what'd you do?”

Louis logs on his Spotify account he's just accidentally logged out of. “Jake Gyllenhaal.”

“You cheated on 'im?”

“Anne Hathaway.”

“Thought you were gay?”

“And I thought you were a dick,” he counters grumpily as he now tries to work out the goddamn radio. “You still are, don't get me wrong, you’ve just proven it, and now please, shut up, it's not something you should care about. And gay is not a synonym to blind. I used to listen to Reynolds’ interviews instead of music, you know?”

“Changing the topics, okay, you're right, it's not my problem.” Nick shrugs. “And I do, too, like, still listen to his interviews.”

“You do?” Louis casts him a surprised glance and cheers quietly when his device finally connects with the car. 

“I like that more than music, honestly, it's entertaining. Always good to listen to people who have something clever to say.”

Louis hums in answer, going through his playlist.

“You know that one song that's not anyone's favorite song but if you asked them about it they're like 'I fuckin' love that song'?”

 _“Bohemian Rhapsody_?”

Louis gives the guy one more bewildered look and plays the song, eyebrows raised in puzzlement. “You're way more intelligent than I thought, I’m man enough to admit it. The more you know.”

“The more you know, my thoughts exactly. On a side note, I took all the responsibility for today. Your aunt won't know a thing about what happened, your and Harry's papers will be clear from 'manifesting violence in the halls of Midtown School of Science & Technology during classes’. And don't even thank me, I'll throw up if I hear one more thank you from you.” Nick stops the car and leans forward a bit, awaiting the green light. “By any chance, have you ever felt like sabotaging your best situation just because you don't want it?”

Louis leans back in his seat, crosses his arms on his chest, and lets his eyelids fall shut.

“Like burning ten grand or setting a bomb under a million dollar mansion that you’ve just been given for free?”

“Like pretending you're dumber than a bag of fucking cinder blocks ‘cause your folks make you go to a nerd school just so that their image remains unscathed.”

Louis gives it a thought, humming some lines of the song.

“Pythagorean theorem?”

“The sum of the areas of the two squares on the legs equals the area of the square on the hypotenuse,” Nick answers without missing a beat and earning himself Louis’ narrow-eyed look.

“Which reaction occurs faster, exothermic or endothermic?”

“Exothermic don't need any energy input to overcome significant energy barriers, and they're spontaneous. Hence why they're faster.”

“Are you nuts?”

“I just don't want to give them the satisfaction.”

“Your folks not the loving sort?”

“I don't even know if they're the parents sort.”

“Good one.”

“It's true.”

“I'm sorry.”

Nick laughs, moving off the car. “You're so weird. I treated you like shit for years, I bullied kids who didn’t deserve it, I even outed your best pal to his parents, and you're here saying sorry because my mom cares more about the plant in the living room than about me, and my dad seems to not even remember my name half the time.”

Louis inhales through his nose, lolling his head and thinking about an answer.

Nick's not wrong. Louis' been through a lot because of him. He was shut in a toilet, he had dicks drawn all over his locker, he had his pictures torn up a couple of times, he was tripped, and called any number of  homophobic names—baby faced abomination included—and he's stopped counting the times various balls have hit his head or back.

"Kids don't deserve bad parents." He shrugs. "Kids are innocent. They're like animals or puppies. They haven't done anything wrong that needs to be punished. They’re learning, they don't always understand the world. They can't fight back. Like, parents are supposed to be the people who love you the most. You grow up with them and their opinion is always the most impactful, and the worst thing is, sometimes they think they can insult you and manipulate you into thinking that they can joke about you, but they don't get one thing, you know? That in the eyes of a kid the insult coming from a parent is the worst thing ever because judgment coming from the people closest to you hurts the most. And it's horrifying how adults don't get it. I can't be thankful enough for my Aunt and Uncle, for their kindness and understanding. I know Liam's situation, and I’ve cried with him more than I can remember. Some parents appear to think that if they gave you birth, feed you, and give you a bed to sleep in, then they have the right to manipulate you and tell you anything, even if it's a straight-up insult. And I'm sorry you have it bad. No kid deserves a bad parent."

Nick's quiet for a moment, mindlessly changing gears and not even frowning at the traffic. He doesn't say a word when Louis begins to stare at him, observing how he's biting on the inside of his cheek. Without the asshole fasade, he's even kind of attractive.

“We don't get to choose the things we love, Nick, hence we why also shouldn't be expected to love who we're forced to choose to love.”

Nick blinks, his eyes starting to glissen.

“I'm sorry I laughed at you when your uncle died,” he says, giving Louis an apologetic smile. “And I'm sorry I called you an orphan. And I'm sorry about your parents, whatever happened with them.”

“Plane crash,” Louis explains vaguely. “Dad was a scientist, had a job thing in Europe. Mom wanted to go with him. The plane had flight control problems, didn't make it over the Pacific.”

Nick pulls over by the Parker Towers and stops the engine. He turns a bit in his seat to look at Louis.

“I'm sorry again. I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you.”

For the umpteenth time today, Louis looks for a joke in his voice or eyes, but the sincerity of the tone and the situation only ends up making him chuckle. He feels like in a haze, a dream. Today has been too much.

“You sound like me, you know? At least now I know how weak it sounds when you say you never meant to hurt anyone.” He rolls his shoulders back and leans to grab his backpack from between his feet.

“You think we’re mean to be assholes?”

“I think none of us ever means to hurt anyone.” He shrugs. “I think we just want to get the anger or sadness or despair onto someone, get it over with, sometimes by doing whatever it takes. We have our quirks and our wants, and sometimes life's just not nice enough to supply you with people who'll either understand you wordlessly or… don't ask when you do some shit that you can’t give a reason for. We never mean to hurt. We just don't know what to do when life gets tougher for a second. It's a minor birth defect."

He fiddles with the straps of his backpack, the suit inside seeming to burn a hole in his knees where it's rested. The guilt-fueled need inside his heart screams at him to put the suit on and make himself useful.

“I really don’t get it.” Nick blows a raspberry.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t get, Nick, two times two including.”

“Shut up. I don’t get kicking your kid out just ‘cause they’re gay. I mean, aren’t they still the same kid? Same kid, they haven’t changed. Still same kid that the parents should and promised they loved unconditionally. If the kid hasn’t changed why would the parents’ opinion of them change?”

“That’s rich coming from the Midtown High poster boy for homophobia, you know?”

Nick inhales heavily. “Yeah, I know. I never meant any of this. Maybe I did, at some point, but I learned better. I just didn’t know how to stop what I started.”

The grip on the backpack strap has Louis’ knuckles go hite.

“It’s ‘cause… Sometimes…. Sometimes we love things for what they aren't, Nick. And when you get see them for what they are, eventually, it shouldn't switch your perspective. Either that or you've never loved unconditionally.”

The words come out with an echo of stabbing pain in his chest and prickling behind his eyelids. He swallows around the lump growing in his throat.

Nick sucks a breath through his teeth. “Can I ask you something?”

Louis quirks a brow at him. “This really ain’t the time for a kiss, Nicholas.”

Much to his surprise, an apparently unwanted blush creeps on Nick's cheeks as he clears his throat, his words carefully picked and spoken slowly.

“Yeah, no, I... I wanted to ask... I just feel like you've changed. And I usually don't give a fuck, but what you did today…” He exhales. “You've changed. And I think I just want to know if you're alright. You look like you haven't slept in weeks.”

Louis looks away, his hand wandering to the door handle.

“I'm fine. Thanks for asking.” He pushes the door open and swings one leg out of the car. He looks at Nick over his shoulder and musters up a warm smile. “And thank you for giving Liam a place. And thanks for the ride. I hope you'll be better. Hit me up if you want to rant or something.”

“I appreciate that.” Nick nods, grinning back. “Have a good night, Louis. Get some rest. You really do look like a ghost from _Scary Movie_.”

Louis laughs. “Night-night, Nick. Take care.”

 

8:55 PM 

how's the jacuzzi

 

leeyum, 8:46 PM

(picture attached)

 

8:47 PM

why would u send me a dick pic

 

8:47 PM

wait no it's zayn. i always get them confused

 

leeyum, 6:48 PM

You're an ass.

 

6:50 PM

Hey, even though your family didn't treat you okay, you will be okay

 

6:50 PM

you don’t need them. you’ll be okay. i promise.

 

The elevator door slides open, revealing a dimly lit hall broken by the night lights from the outside. Louis yawns, tugging on the straps of his backpack, and steps into the corridor, already clearing his throat.

“Can’t sleep?” he throws a question without looking to the side.

Lottie groans. “Goddamn mutant with eyes on the side of his head. Also it’s eight. And I’m not a child.”

“I asked a question, young padawan. And language.”

He looks at the door at the end of the hall where an empty apartment is waiting for his wretched ass, and then to the right where Lottie’s sitting. He blows a raspberry and approaches the girl.

“Buy a ticket for that seat?” Lottie asks, watching him slump by her side on the pillow.

Louis only huffs in response and snuggles into her side. “How’s school been, squirt?”

Lottie pats his head with her free hand. “I’d rather we talk about why you look like you’ve swallowed a dead frog and drank it down with a pity cocktail.”

He's taught her too much. “Thanks. Never heard that compliment before.”

“You’re absolutely welcome.”

They fall into silence, or at least whatever silence is for middle of the night in New York city. Louis draws his mind towards distinguishing random conversations from behind the walls, story up, story down, until he hears way too detailed descriptions of what a woman would like her guy to do to her private parts.

Enhanced hearing is so much fun.

“Wanna talk about this?”

Louis sighs, closing his eyes. “If I did, I’d be in the middle of my confession now.”

“You know you’re like a brother to me, right?” she asks, pulling her arm from where Louis’ side is crushing it and throws it over his shoulders. “Like a brother that I meet once in a while or every day, depending on the time period and my need for homeschooling. But I trust you, and I love you, and I want you to trust me too, okay? I may not know the answers to your problems, but I can listen, and you seem like you’re gonna explode soon with all you have in you.”

“You mean organs?”

She bumps his shoulder with a fist. “Just talk to me, you idiot, or else you're gonna end up dark and cold like Severus Snape.”

“You really do have a talent for making people feel better about themselves.”

“Oi, just talk, goddammit.”

He rolls his eyes, setting his jaw. He would like to know where to start, what to say. It's been a day. A year, too.

Then he inhales sharply and sighs.

“I just... hurt someone. I think. Plenty of someones. I didn't mean to but... I just, you know... I'd rather not have people that I'd let down eventually. I don't want someone to expect me to be there for them when I can't. I'm… I get busy. I can't give them my time, and I also don't want to be alone, and it's so hard to explain why I can't have them around without disclosing everything about myself. And when I disclose a part of me, it feels like…”

“Like you're disclosing the whole of you.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly. And I don't want to be alienated. I wanna have friends, but I also don't wanna have friends. I want to have a boyfriend, but I know I'm not good enough—I'm not good for them. I used to have a lot to offer, but now I feel like I have nothing to offer at all. Only thing I do is school, and…”

He rubs his eyes again and tucks his hand under his ribs. And what? School and what? Filling the gap that guilt drills in him every day? Basically.

“What do you mean by hurt someone?” Lottie pushes, starting to draw calming circles on his shoulder blade. “Did you beat them up, or insult them? Stepped on their sandwich?”

“Well, first, uh.” He sniffles. “I walked away. From my friends. With—with no explanation at all. Then I snapped at Mister Stark. Then I broke off things with Harry, despite myself.”

“Who’s Harry?”

“Harry, he’s…” He chuckles heartlessly. “He’s amazing. You must have met him, he’s the curly one.”

“That one guy who run away screeching after I gave him a look?”

“You’re the one he claimed to be a tiny monster ready to slap him in his face with, quote unquote, must fucking judgemental look he’s seen ever since he’d dreamed about devil listening to his sins?”

“Maybe.”

“So yes, that’s him.” He lets out a dry laugh and swallows nervously. “He’s just someone I think I might have... fallen for? Fallen for, yeah. No matter how much I didn’t want to. We met a year ago at Oscorp. He transferred to Midtown High. We met again, talked, he was adorable, surprising, and the weirdest person ever, one thing led to another, and then… then it didn't.”

The frown is audible in Lottie’s voice. “Excuse me, sir, but why would you not want to love someone?”

She hasn’t sounded more outraged ever since he said that _Tangled_ is better than _Frozen_.

“Because if they love me back, they want to be with me. And I don’t want to be with them.”

“Why don’t you wanna be with them?”

“Because I can’t _be_ with them. Busy, remember?”

She shakes her head. “I really don’t get you sometimes.”

“I don’t get me all the time, kid,” he jokes, shrugging. “Let me know when you find out how I work, I’ll gladly listen.”

“The people you’ve hurt. Did you hurt them badly? I suppose you didn’t kill their mother in the process.”

Louis snorts. “Chrissakes, kid, no, nothing like that.”

“Chrissakes,” she mocks. “What kinda word is that?”

Louis almost says the name but chickens. “Just a word.”

“Whatever. My advice? Go say sorry. If you want them back in your life, go say sorry.”

He bites on the inside of his cheek. It sounds so easy.

“Yeah, but—”

“Remember the time I broke Daisy's favorite pencil because she ate my Cheetos?"

“Obviously.” He lets out a chuckle at the memory.

“Don’t laugh. It was an XL pack, it was worth three pencils. She should know my mercy.” She digs a finger in his spine, earning herself a quiet shriek. “And remember what you told me then?”

He nods carefully. “Go say sorry like you mean it.”

Lottie hums. “Mhm. Go say sorry like you mean it.”

“But I—”

“Did you tell him?”

God, he hates this kid. “Tell him what?”

“That you love him, jeez, obviously.”

Louis almost chokes on his own spit. He clears his throat, eyes fluttering open and looking at the wall in front of them.

“ _Obviously_ ,” it’s his turn to mock. “Kid, that’s a damn big word, you know? Not everything is that simple.”

“You've got this lovey-dovey marshmallow sweet look on your face, who are you trying to fool? ‘Sides, if he was just some guy you had a passing crash on, you wouldn’t be wallowing in despair like you are.”

Louis exhales heavily, exasperation creeping into his voice.

“I’m not _wallowing in despair_. I mean, I am, but with honor. And clean clothes.”

She bumps his head with hers.

“Pathetic. Just say sorry. If you really want people back in your life, you should fight for it. You’re one of the smartest guys on this planet, Lou, I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to get around this ‘I don’t want to but I want to’ issue. There are always more than two ways. That’s what you taught me. Don’t make me think all of your lessons were completely fake.”

He hates it when she’s right. “You’re using my own wisdom against me? Low blow, Lots. Low blow.”

“Just get off your ass and do something, Louis Tomlinson. Life’s too short for not loving people and not letting them love you. And you’re too smart to not know what to do. Alright?”

He doesn’t answer for a couple of seconds, just listening to Lottie’s heartbeat.

“Alright.” He nestles himself deeper into the pillow, crossing his legs and hiding his face in Lottie’s hoodie. “I’ll just stay here for a minute or two weeks, gather up some thoughts that don’t rhyme with ‘catastrophe’.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“Finally some spot-on comment, Lottie, I’m proud of the progress you’ve achieved in such a small amount of time.”

Louis’ all nuzzled and close to snoozing when Lottie speaks up again, voice low and grave.

“So they really fucked on that mountain with no lube, huh?”

 

**April the 14th, Saturday**

 

Louis’ never forgotten Jay’s birthday. 

Ever since he could comprehend words and store them logically in his brain, he’s remembered Jay’s birthday. Whether he was five and waking up a minute after midnight to run into her and Dan’s room to jump on their bed and sing off-key enough to wake up the neighbors, or when he was seven and buying the biggest bouquet of tulips after squirelling away bits of his lunch money for a year and falling into the apartment after his classes with the loudest ‘happy birthday’ he could muster up, or when he was eleven and managed to save enough money to buy Jay the prettiest fuzzy pink sweater—he always remembered.

Jay’s and Dan's birthdays have always been one of those things he’d never forget. His social security number. His parents’ names. His first won championship. The thousands of equations he could recall and recite in two seconds woken in the middle of a night. The list goes on and the birthdays of the people who raised him have been on the very top of it for almost entirety of his life.

It’s always been awaited and always properly celebrated, because Louis may be a lot of things but ungrateful isn’t one of them. _Always_. There hasn't been a single year when Jay Deakin's birthday would go left unnoticed.

The door is open. Carefully, he enters the apartment—one that he thought would be empty given that it’s Jay’s shift—with a black eye and a couple of bruises on one side of his face that will fade in a handful of hours. He should not have tried to take a whole gang of men who appeared to eat bears for breakfast. The success hurts, and his not so easily achievable bruises are the best proof of it.

The apartment is dim, the only source of light coming from bustling New York just outside the window. It doesn’t look like someone’s even here. Except they are. He can hear the familiar breathing.

His gaze finds Jay sitting on the couch. With a cake on the table—packed in a plastic box, with floral patterns around the sides and a lot of colors on the top. Just like she likes it. Just like Louis ordered it four months prior.

Jay is staring at the cake, stress and an expression of failure painted across her face. Her hands are clutching tight onto a phone that he supposes she’s been using to try and contact him with no success—his battery gave up at school and he forgot about it completely.

Heart clenching in his chest slowly enough to become a quiet torture, he closes the door behind him with his feet and walks into the living room. The backpack thuds onto the floor.

“Hey.” He attempts a weak smile. “What are you doing home?”

She puts the phone on the coffee table and rubs her eyes. Louis’ about to stop her from smearing the mascara but then he realizes she doesn’t have any on.

“Perrie called,” she says dryly, getting up from the couch. “You were supposed to pick up the cake at three. Never did. Never picked up your phone, too. So she called me.”

Then she turns and pauses. And she stares. Not in fear, not in disbelief or shock. Her expression is inscrutable as she takes his face in, her gaze stopping on the left side that he knows has turned shades of violet and blue.

And then she’s close, cradling his face gently in her hands, her thumb brushing over the bruises light as a feather.

“I just... I—I tripped,” he mutters a lie, instantly avoiding any eye contact. It's the first ding-ding on a lie detector, but he can't handle her seeing him like this. “It’s... nothing. It’ll heal. Everything does.”

The following three seconds of silence are like torture for Louis and he wonders why she isn’t shouting. She should be shouting. She has to. Maybe he needs someone to bring him back to Earth.

“I worry about you, Louis.” She lifts his head with a finger under his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You’ve been so absent-minded. You’ve been home late more often than not. You’re out more than you’re home. I only get glimpses of you for a couple of minutes here and there, the only evidence that your in at all sometimes is the clean sink after you’ve done the dishes.”

He bites on the inside of his cheek, desperately fighting a losing battle with the tears gathering and his tightening throat.

“I know.”

“You know, I—I sit here in the evenings and mornings, sometimes at nights, and I hear in the news that Spider-Man saved two cars from crashing, and that they changed another law, and that someone in France has forty seven dogs at home, that another day’s gonna be a sunny day. I hear from a friend that they have a nephew, a stranger compliments my sweater, and—” She pauses, dropping her hands to Louis’ shoulders where she digs into his flesh. “And I hear from school that you’re excelling and have the top marks, that your notes are like no one else’s and they thank me for such a good student. I hear all of this, and I look around, and…” The tremble in her voice breaks the word in two, her tone dropping to a half-whisper. “And you’re not here. You’re just not here. I’ve come to realize that you’ve got your own life, that you’re not ten years old anymore, but it still... I miss you.”

All he can do is nod, neck stiff, jaws tight, trying to ignore how his lungs seem to begin to collapse on themselves. He fidgets with his fingers, eyes dropping down, now stuck on the way his bones move under the thin skin of his wrists, until he realizes that it’s not a stain on his palm, it’s a tear.

He rubs his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

“I never wanted you to worry,” his reply comes out in a rasp. “Never… Never wanted you alone. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.”

“Honey, me being alone... Of course it’s not your fault—”

“Yes, it _is_!” he clips to his own surprise and immediately looks aside, swallowing. Routine, routine has been broken. “It is.”

“Look at me, Louis. Can you look at me?”

He does, even though it’s hard to distinguish Jay’s features through the tears.

She cradles his hands, but doesn’t close them. They rest on her palms, her thumb gentle over the skin in a light, idle touch.

It’s only now that Louis realizes there’s a couple more scars there than there were a year ago.

It dawns on him that the same hands that helped have also hurt. The same hands held Jay’s shaking frame at a funeral, held Harry when he’d wake up from a dream, held Niall when his parents couldn’t make it to the dentist with him and he’d never admit to anyone he’s actually scared of going there alone—these hands have thrown thugs against walls, jerked guns out of thieves’ pockets, these hands have hurt and been hurt so many times in just a dozen months, and they’ll go through the same for many more, as many as he’s alive. Suit or not.

“I know I feel like I’m a hundred years old to you, but I was where you are now.” Jay finally closes his palms in hers, squeezing them reassuringly. “And I know how it feels to be a teenager, someone brushed off by adults because kids don’t have problems, huh? And the truth is… Truth is that teenagers get their hearts _smashed_ to tiny bits. They have crushes who don’t like ‘em back and a whole plethora of complicated feelings. And—And life gets harder before it gets easier, it's an endless circle. Take it from someone who dated seven guys before I met your uncle, all of which broke me and had me spend a couple weeks on a couch while I healed myself. You’re gonna end up sobbing your heart out in your bed at one point or another, you’re gonna think that if it hasn’t gotten better yet then it never will. But you’re also gonna end up finding moments where you’ll really love life in spite of the terrible weeks it puts you through sometimes. When people say that problems are temporary, they mean it. You have a whole life in front of you, angel. Whatever’s going on with you, it will pass, eventually.”

She smiles, drawing circles on his skin, brushing over it like it might tear if she pressed a bit harder.

“And I am so, _so_ proud of you, Louis. And Dan would be, too. You’ve been growing into a great, smart, talented man, and I can’t wait to see how much change you’ll do in the world.” He voice breaks again. “And I’ve done for you... everything I thought was right. The best I could. But you’ve been so off lately, and I…” Her words start dragging as she closes her eyes. “Now…. I… don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

A ragged sob tears out from Louis’ throat. He gasps for air, dropping his head to avoid the eye contact that Jay tries to maintain, and opens his mouth.

_I’m so sorry. I should have told you ages ago._

“Happy birthday. I love you.”

He doesn’t get to hear any response. He’s never escaped from the apartment faster.

 

April has been chilly.

“Hello, God? ‘Sup, it's Louis. Tomlinson. Can I ask you a favor? I know I've been your personal cat toy for quite a while now, but can we not do that for a day or five? Like, not real long, I realize the odds are close to zero for that, but just a little while.”

Some days still seem intent on reminding people out on the streets about winter and its recent activity. The sun, though, appears to have worked for everyone's favor. People have been wearing lighter jackets, wool hats going back into closets, and thick boots and EMU’s have been replaced with sneakers. For Louis it means walls are easier to crawl along and l changing in alleyways is a bit less frigid. 

Another upside of the warmer April weather is that he’s not freezing completely while standing at Calvary Cemetery only in his suit with the heater off and the fur-lined jean jacket pulled out from his backpack with civvies and thrown on in a rush.

"Peak of laziness, really." He chuckles and sighs, rubbing his eyes with a wrist and stuffing his hand back to the mask-free pocket. "You never let me be this lazy. You never had to. I was too busy taking apart Banner's papers on radiation, even though I didn't understand it for shit." He snorts, dropping his backpack on the ground.

He looks up at the flickering light of a lantern down the street. It buzzes and sparks, as if desperately trying to glow and enlighten the surroundings, but never getting to it. The only source of light falling onto the cemetery are the other lanterns, but given that he's far from the fence, the streetlight is no help.

He shuffles his feet across the grass and sighs.

"I'm sorry I haven't dropped by in a while. Things have gotten crazy, you know. Met Tony Stark again, he gifted me a workshop. Can't be thankful enough, but he doesn't want me to thank him. Tony's cool." One corner of his lips quirks up in an empty smile. "Did I ever tell you how I freaked out when he first showed up at ours? You and I were such fanboys of the Avengers, and I even once met Tony at the Stark Expo. Stark Expo, remember that? When we got grounded for a week because we snuck out and you were supposed to fix the shower? And Tony, he’s so nice. You'd really, really like him.”

His voice falters a little at the last words, so he takes a sharp breath and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"In other news, I met that guy. Harry.” The name rolls off his tongue like the sweetest candy he can’t touch. “He's so weird, like... He changes his ringtone a couple times a week. He has these knives in his room, and he's illegally nice and pretty, and he shouldn't be as wonderful as he is, but I guess people _are_ capable of good choices, after all. I mean, he didn't even—" Louis pauses and sighs. He rubs his cheeks with both hands. "I hurt him. A bit. I mean, I don't want distractions, I don't… want anyone to stand in my way when I go out. I don't want anyone in danger as well. This... job. What I do, it…” He exhales heavily. “Everyday there are more people who don't like me. I don't like the word enemies. But who knows at what point one of them will decide to take revenge because I stopped their well-planned robbery? I don't want anyone to get involved, Dan, but this crap, this thing, it… it drags people you care about down with you. It’s like a tornado, you get in its wake and it sweeps you up. So I figured, I had to cut them off. And I did. And I'm alone, I guess. That's what I wanted, isn't it?”

He slumps down on the ground and hugs the backpack to himself. He promised himself he wouldn't cry, but when tears start to threaten to gather behind his eyelids, and his throat tightens and burns, he just lets it happen. He's getting so fucking done with making the 'right’ choices.

"I never _meant_ to hurt anyone. I just..." He sniffles and takes another deep breath. "I just wanted them safe. But today... Today I forgot Jay's birthday. And she wasn't even mad, you know? She... She wasn't... disappointed or angry, she didn't yell at me or something. She was just so... sad. I could see that in her eyes that I—I think I hurt her too, and I hate it."

A sob tears out his lungs and he lunches forward to cover it up with his hand and bury his face in drawn up knees.

"I know I promised you... I know I said that I would never give up. But I am—I'm at the end of my rope.” He pauses and sniffles. “I just don't know. I don't know what to do anymore.”

He cries in silence he hasn't heard for a while. He snatches a pack of tissues with trembling hands and blows his nose every once in a few minutes. He doesn't hold back when ugly sounds start to come out of his throat, letting them echo in the empty space of the graveyard. Nobody sane comes here at this time. 

He's done with trying to make himself and others believe he knows what he's doing. For a second there it felt like maybe the guilt that was defining his actions was a course he could stick to and make it through, but he lost himself somewhere along the way. He's getting past refusing to listen to his senses screming about how he doesn't know jackshit about what he's doing.

When his breath evens out after what feels like an hour, he finds more tissues in his backpack and uses half a pack to blow his nose. Breathe in, and out. In and out. It's gonna be fine. 

He hugs his legs to his chest and covers them with the jacket. He looks up at the engraved letters and numbers in the stone.

“I’m sorry. It should have been me.”

He doesn’t know how it happens, but then again, he should have gotten used to Harry being able to sneak up on him whenever and wherever he wants.

The light coming from what Louis supposes is Harry’s phone only flickers across his body before it lands a couple of feet on his right. Louis realizes that he’s still in his suit and he finds that he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s finally time. If there even is such a thing like the right time.

Harry stops a respectful distance from Louis, still close enough for his voice to be perfectly audible.

"Thought I'd find you here. Jay’s worried."

Louis doesn’t know what devil takes over his heart and vocal cords, but he can’t help it. He told Harry to leave him alone. He forgets about all these plans he had to take it easy and say sorry.

He wipes his nose into the last dry piece of his sleeve.

"Your brain cells must be glad to have been put into use." Well, that's… wow. A four-star, eleven-out-of-ten move. Spectacular reaction to someone's genuine concern.

What he doesn’t expect is Harry losing it. Like, _losing it_.

"Oh, my _fucking God!_ ” Harry snaps, and the beam of light slides up the stone, making it clear that Harry’s close to throwing not only hands but also whatever he can find under his hand. “What the _fuck_ is your strategy here? Are you incapable of not being an asshole for five damned minutes? Are you fucking _happy_ like that? Do you think _I_ am happy about being here? I’ve only come because Jay had to go back to work which she left because of your irresponsible ass! And Niall’s somewhere out, and she wanted someone to check on you, and I had to overcome the disgust I feel towards you and come here. And I fucking hate it! And not because it's an effort, not because I have better things to do, but because I hate seeing _you_ like this!

“I hate that I had to see you change and couldn't do anything about it because when I wanted to get closer you shut me out. I hate that I had to look at you from afar and worry my ass off because you looked like a zombie drugged with sanitizer. I hate that I couldn't talk to you because I wanted to respect your will and fuck if I didn't want to go back that day and shake you and ask what the hell is wrong with you. I hate being in this position. I wanted to be with you and you wouldn’t let me. But okay, fuck it, people are people. Despite you being the biggest dickhead, I still want you to be good and safe, and I want you to tell me things, but you don't want it so I'm not pushing. But for God's sake, stop being an asshole. You’re gonna play this lost-at-a-sea game and you’re gonna get your anchor cut off soon. What happened to you, man? You’re not the same person I met in classroom twenty-eight all these weeks ago. I never dared to think that I knew you, but now? I don't think I even got a real chance to know you at all.”

By the end of the tirade Harry's not even panting. His heartbeat has picked up its pace, that Louis can hear in the empty space. 

Seconds pass in silence, and he would be damned if the speech even got to him. It’s like no word has been said, like it's been all just an echo of a void. 

He gets to his legs with a wince at the crack of his spine, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and steps into the pool of light.

The world should stop. He should care more. It’s what he’s been hiding for over a year. It’s what he’s been losing his sleep over and lied so many times that he stopped his count. Something that he promised himself he would never disclose because it’s dangerous. His life has become dangerous. Nobody should see what he’s showing now.

None of it happens. No nerves, no stressing his heart out, no worry. He’s just standing there, the light coming from Harry’s phone reflecting on the high-tech material and the craved in, concave lines in the shape of webs. It feels like they’re meeting for the first time, and Louis, frankly, begins to like that feeling in a way.

He almost laughs at how odd it is—that absence of drama in reality. It’s not a movie or a show, and when an extraordinary thing happens, you realize there's no drums, no music, no Hans ZImmer-worthy score building up to that moment, to ta-dah’s. No camera close-up, no weird angles, no slow motion. Absolutely nothing but silence and chaos of the world still going on because nobody cares.

Then he catches Harry’s eyes, and Harry’s eyes have lost the anger he displayed a minute ago. He’s staring, gears shifting in his head, puzzles falling into the right places—Louis can practically hear his thoughts.

Harry swallows and looks up. He takes in what must be a splotched in red skin of Louis’ face and opens his mouth. And closes it again. He bites on his lower lip, tries to say something again, and fails once more.

It would look funny if it wasn’t so grave.

When he manages to speak up, it’s quiet and steady.

“Is that why?”

The question could be applied to so many situations, hundreds of them at this point, but Louis knows exactly what it’s about. He and Harry are just like that.

He simply nods in response.

Harry actually smiles a little. Just a little. The corners of his lips quirk up and tremble. He shakes his head to what seems to be his own thoughts and eyes Louis up and down.

Louis ought to be uncomfortable, and he sort of is, and he even makes to crack a weak joke when his earpiece goes off.

" _All cars in the area of East Manhattan. We have a man on a glider flying over the streets. He appears to be harmless, heading towards Queens. I repeat, a man on a glider—_ ”

“ _Fifteenth squad en route. The Avengers status: out of town. Rogers, Barnes, Rhodes, Wilson—ETA eighty-nine minutes. Maximoff, Vision, Banner, T’Challa—ETA seventy-five minutes, thirty seconds._ ”

Maybe one day he’ll be forgiven. Maybe he's just lost his shot.

“ _Thor, Danvers—out of range. Barton, Romanoff—ETA seventy minutes. Stark—on his way, ETA sixty minutes, fifteen seconds._ ”

He pulls out the mask from his pocket, puts it on, and loses his jacket. All of this in front of Harry, casually, as if he’s done it a thousand times, holding the eye contact. He slings his backpack onto his shoulders and straightens up. _Say it like you mean it_.

“I’m sorry.” 

“ _Sixteenth squad en route. Has anybody seen Spider-Man? I repeat, has anyone seen Spider-Man?_ ”

“ _Negative._ ”

The fear crossing Harry's face the moment when Louis takes off almost makes him stay.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (kudos and comments appreciated <3 )


	4. walk away

 

**April the 14th, Saturday**

 

Louis swings in a dizzying arc that snaps him around a building and onto Queens Boulevard. He fires one line, and then another, swooping from one side of the street to the other. Some pedestrians point and shout his alter ego's name, trying to yank their phones out on time to snap a picture. The ones with their cameras already out are the only ones getting lucky today.

He doesn't really buy into the term 'superhero' that the media love to bandy about. Too self-aggrandizing for his likes. Now, though, with the weird buzz in his head, suspiciously similar to the one he’d experienced before Liam got outed, he knows he's going to try and live up to the title.

His heart clenches around emptiness as he's making his way down Queens Boulevard, seeking out the police.  He kicks around the idea of having a breakdown—the idea of screaming with frustration at the parts within himself that bought into the lies peddled by every book or movie that made it seem as though falling for someone was easy. Teenagers don't have problems, right? Real problems. Life's easy on kids, isn't it?

Christ, the things he would do to be average right now. So he could walk away from what he's about to do.

“Would you?” he sneers out a question on his way to the top of a higher building. “ _Would_ you walk away?”

Once he spots a couple of police cars that appear to be trying to stay in formation, he webs his backpack away in a random alley and lowers his swing so he can jump onto one of them without denting the hood. 

Two points for Gryffindor, the driver doesn't even flinch.

“What are you thinking about, fucking hell, _fo-cus_.”

Focusing turns out to be not so much of a good idea because the world continues to be ruthless towards his persona and the radio in the car is blasting Air Supply's _All Out of Love_. Can this day get any better?

He crawls along the car's side, braces himself enough to not get hit by passing vehicles, and and knocks on the window of a startled policeman.

“How's it looking…?” he trails off after the window slides half down and glances at the badge. “Sergeant Nicks. Nice to meet you.”

The man throws him a quick glance and then checks on his companion. Both men look ridiculously alike—white, dark-haired, in their twenties, and clearly in bewilderment.

“I would add more blue, but the black balances it out pretty well,” Nicks says finally and honks at the cars that don't understand what the flashing lights and deafening sounds mean. Louis winces in pain. “Your backside looks good in it, though.”

“I'm flattered, really, but one, I'm like eighteen, and two, I meant the situation y’all are screaming on the coms about.”

“Oh. Sorry, kid.” Sergeant Nicks makes an apologetic face. Then he blinks at Louis in horror. ”Wait, what? What the hell? Don't you have better things to do at this age?”

“Do I look like I make good life choices to you? How are we looking, sir?” Louis peeks deeper into the car. He draws out a hand to the other guy, careful not to blind the driver. “Hi. Spider-Man.”

“Big fan,” the man replies, shaking his hand. “I mean, Shone. Jon Shone. Patrol officer. Glad you're here, Spider-Man. Good to have you.”

“A nutjob on a flying plate? Couldn't miss that circus.” He pulls his arm back. “What’s our situation? Who's that guy?”

“Some looney in a suit on what seems to be a glider, he's basically flying around the city,” explains Nicks, taking a sharp turn. Louis crawls up onto the hood and leans  over the edge so that his face is still in the open window. “He might be connected to the Oscorp and Osborn mansion explosions from what we can gather. Looks like we have a new villain in town.”

 _Now_ Louis wants to scream. Or cry, or die. He's not sure yet. He can't believe he forgot about it.

For God's sake, Osborn died, then his wife, his daughter is on the run, and he just… played in the streets, got all lovey-dovey with a guy he shouldn't even be talking to, and dragged his exhausted body around like he's gotten stuck in his emo stage.

 _Stop_. Be angry later, think now. 

“Where's he—”

“ _The target is gone, I repeat, the target is out of sight,”_ both Louis’ earpiece and the policemen's scanner go off in a female voice. “ _All cars, proceed with caution. The target took a turn on Queens Boulevard and 76th, he’s in the wind._ ”

Nicks picks up his HT. “Anybody got eyes on him?”

“ _Negative._ ”

Louis knows what he needs to know. He looks around to situate himself. Still Queens Boulevard. Jewel Avenue. He’s close.

“I'll go ahead, guys, stay safe. Don't take many risks.”

“We’ll give you a lift!” Officer Shone calls from over Nicks’ shoulder, leaning in.

“I’m faster up there, thanks.”

“You’re gonna need help, kid.”

Louis shows him thumbs up. “I'm better on my own.”

He crawls back onto the hood of the car and takes off, aiming for the thankfully quite tall buildings. 71st Ave. 72nd Ave.

His sense flashes, making him twist in the air and avoid a person flying past on some sort of device and what looks like a sword of some kind.

Great. Toys. It's gonna be fun.

He fires a web to catch a street lamp but before it connects with the pole the day is quick to remind him about its offness—next thing he knows he’s in pain, screaming, and flying over several buildings having been punched out of nowhere.

He lands on sandy ground, tumbling across the surface, grunting and wheezing uneven breaths only coming to a stop when his side hits something solid.

Something cracks when he sits up which instantly turns out to be a dumb decision. Every single muscle in his body yells at him in refusal.

“ _Shiiit_ ,” he groans, his head spinning and sight blurry. “Shitshitshitshit.”

He spends a couple of seconds taking deep breaths despite the ache in his ribs, and only then forces himself to stand. He gets up from the ground with numerous whimpers, supporting himself on something that turns out to be a swing.

“Fuck, dude, you alright?”

The instincts got him twisting his whole body in reaction to a male voice coming from behind his back, arms shooting up combat ready. As if he's ever actually _done_ combat.

One of four guys sitting on the monkey bars gets down in a swift move, landing in a crouch, and approaches Louis. He hooks one of his arms under Louis’ and helps him higher up.

Louis rubs his head with a free hand and then sticks it to the swing for balance.

“You guys should go,” he croaks out, blinking to clear his vision. He begins distinguishing figures and shapes. “There’s some freak on a flying pod terrorizing the city, y'all need to hide.”

“I asked a question, man.” The guy frowns, letting go of Louis as soon as he rests his back on the frame of the swing. “Are you alright? We’re not leaving you here wounded. You need ER? It’s the least we can do after all you've done for the city.”

Louis actually digests the words and asses himself. The suit has no damage, but the skin underneath sure does. Thanks to the hit and hard landing he took he’ll look like he took a bath in plum juice tomorrow, but other than that, he’s fine. Even he can’t walk away from crash landing into a playground from ten stories up without some wounding.

“Nothing broken. I’m good to go.” He shrugs, swallowing the whine at the sting of pain as he does so. “Now go, I don’t want you in trouble. Go, go.”

The guy seems to consider his words before reluctantly walking away. The group leaves the park in a quick march, throwing a couple glances over their shoulders.

Louis whines again at the pain radiating across his shoulders and back, all the places that took the impact of the fall. 

“What is this thing?” He checks on the web-shooters, making sure that they’re full so he won’t run out of fluid mid-fight. 

Swallowing another faint whimper, he climbs up on the swing and crouches at the edge, looking around what turns out to be the Willow Lake Playground. It appears as if it is now deserted which Louis is solemnly grateful for. Just when he’s about to go back to the streets, he hears the whir of what must be the glider, and sure enough, ia couple of seconds later it winds up hovering in front of Louis.

Louis has seen a lot in his life, nerds jerking off to Star Wars posters in the school bathroom included, but he's never seen anything this immensely ugly and repulsive. He genuinely gags at the sight and can feel the remains of the half of a banana he had for breakfast trying to come up his throat and threatening to get the mask dirty.

It's nightmare brought to life, what's floating in front of him. Closer to being a something rather than a someone, the only indication of humanness being the shape of their body and thumbs. It's murky green, dried out skin hunched back, and yellowed eyeballs. Malice flares in the washed out green of their eyes, horrifying and deadly. The dark exoskeleton has the Oscorp logo on it and so does the bat-shaped glider. Fingerless gloves appear to have been found in the trash and thrown on, capping off the whole goblin-esque OOTD perfectly.

Louis has never been a fan of horrors, but now that he thinks about it, it was good that he watched all the seasons of _American Horror_ _Story_. It was a great warm-up for facing a real-life monster (it wasn’t).

“Someone lost their chance to land in the top three of America's Next Top Model,” he jokes conversationally, bracing his hands at the edge of the frame. Jokes, yes, ever the lifesavers. “Unless you’re about to be the face of those before and after commercials, then go ahead.”

The goblin grins, revealing a row of perfectly white and terrifyingly out-of-place teeth. At least his voice matches his looks—it’s scratchy and dirty.

“Always humorous, aren’t we, Tomlinson?”

As this old saying goes— _fuck_.

Louis’ heart drops to his stomach. He swallows. Or at least tries to. He fails miserably, his throat swollen all of a sudden, breath hitching.

“You know me?” The question comes out high-pitched and shaky even through the voice modulator.

There’s something stomach-twisting about the way the man looks down from on high like a malevolent god ready for a slaughter. The way be beckons with his head in the general direction of Jamaica Estates, eyes distant, cruelty creeping into the corners of his mouth. He tilts his chin up.

Louis has heard the saying ‘the world stops for a while’, and he never understood what it was about, but now he gets it. Time seems to collapse. A second stretches out infinitely, until he opens and closes his mouth like a fish thrown on shore and finally finds his voice  again.

“Osborn. You dick.”

The man clicks his tongue.

“Now, now, Mister Tomlinson, have some respect for your elders.”

Louis’ quickly kicks back into his survival mode of cheap jokes and fake-it-till-you-make-it courage.

“Oh, yes, where are my manners? You come out here and terrorize the city, and I don’t even thank you. How rude of me.” He frowns, the lenses buzzing as they follow the movement. Stay calm. Step one: be polite. “What did you do to yourself? Hydrodermabrasion gone wrong?”

Failed step one.

Osborn shifts, bristling slightly at the words, and there's something dangerous in that brief movement that changes his demeanour from that of a laughably ugly creature into a predator that could stab Louis without a second thought, smiling and cracking a joke afterwards.

“I did what you should have helped me with,” anger lacing ever syllable. “Fixed myself.”

“You wanted to cage and use me,” Louis reminds him, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I may be dumb but I’m not stupid, I know what tables and needles mean.”

 He catalogues what he can in the darkness, taking advantage of his enhanced sight and the heads-up display, his mind already strategizing. He recognizes little details such as the utility belt holding  pellets that could easily be highly dangerous bombs, the weird knives strapped to the sides of the man’s calves, the sword with a complicated handle sheathed on his back. The Oscorp logo engraved on the gear-up made of what must be carbon fiber and vibranium means that Osborn has zero problems with finding a good use in all of the elements of his tools at the hand. Plus, vibranium means Louis is most likely screwed if he doesn’t use his IQ points. 

“I just wanted to be fixed, kid. And now look what you did to me.”

Louis—who is absolutely not panicking at all—tilts his head to the side. 

“Gonna stop you right there. Got no mood for long villain speeches. I might look like I'm interested in what's sure to be a boring-ass bad guy flaunt where you explain me why I should care and what you are, the red gives it away, but I'm actually super not.” Sometimes he regrets he can use words. “Whatever happened happened, _you_ did that to _yourself_ , Mister Grinch, and  I had a whole bunch of _nothing_ to do with you putting yourself into an acid bath.”

“You hurt me.”

“I’m still not hugging you.”

“You think you’re funny?” Osborn snorts, shifting again, and the glider moves with him. It looks practiced and natural, and terrifying ballet.

“Oh, I assure you that the only thing I think I am is an asshole,” Louis counters, standing up. His knees give a sound of disapproval. “Look, I haven't slept for two days. I don’t even remember my last meal properly. Today has been one of the worst days in my life. Mind doing me a solid and surrendering now? We can hash it out, get that grass off your skin, maybe call Wright Jones. Call it a day. Text me tomorrow and I'm all yours. We can fix that. Not to brag, but my friend’s Tony Stark, you know.”

Osborn lowers himself to Louis height, moving closer to the swing. He's still taller, and from up close even more monstrous.

“You think you can fix me even more than I am? You're weak, you were just a successful lab rat that happened to live. I am something else, something more.”

“Has anybody told you you sound like a cheap toy infomercial from the nineties?” Louis crosses his arms against his chest protectively. He’ll do anything to not let the anxiety take the lead, he can't afford shaky hands now.

“I see you’ve gotten a sharp tongue.”

Why are his eyes so green, god dammit. “Yeah, people change. Cut your shit, what do you want?”

The staggering, evil grin that widens Osborn's lips wasn't worth the retort. The man ducks his head a little to give Louis a piercing look, making his guts twist and chest slowly sink into itself.

“For now? Nothing but you dead. You refused, so I had to take the matter in my own hands. You killed me, and then you killed them all.”

Confused and instantly alarmed, Louis scans Osborn’s face and forces himself to look into the washed out, venomous eyes. Only now he realizes that there’s more insanity than anything else going on here. The changes had been mental as well as physical, he can see the instability in the way the man’s mouth twitches and his eyes seem to cut Louis into pieces with a heavy gaze.

Louis tilts his head, opens his mouth, closes it. He squints. “Excuse me, what?”

“You've killed them all,” Osborn growls with more malice in his voice. “Hamilton. Kingsley. Watson. Thompson. Emily. _My_ _Emily_.”

Air leaves Louis’ lungs and his heart wanders up to his mouth.

“You killed your own wife?” His arms fall loosely to his sides. “No offence, but are you mental?”

He's gone crazy. Norman Osborn has gone absolutely insane. And Louis has nothing but a onesie and a few acrobatic tricks to fight that insanity.

The answer wasn't the right one because Osborn’s up in his personal space in a flash, a knife on Louis’ throat, raging eyes drilling into Louis’ brain.

“ _You_ killed them. You destroyed _me_ and killed them all, you selfish little brat. I should have taken you back to the labs when I had the chance and cut you into pieces.” The tip of the dagger digs under Louis’ jaw and scratches the surface of the suit. Louis gulps. “I should have taken what's mine and thrown what was left of your corpse to sharks for a snack. Instead I let you go and hoped I would be strong enough to survive what you survived. I wasn't so lucky, as you can see. And you're gonna pay for that. For all of it.”

Louis crosses his eyes at the handle of the dagger and considers his options. He can run. It means a chase. He can fight, but given the mental state of Osborn, there are likely be some bombs and sharp objects involved. He can also talk with the guy and wait for the police, but he doesn’t want the police involved in superhuman matters.

Think, think, think.

“Alright, alright, listen to me.” He slowly raises his hands in surrender, attempting a step back along the frame of the swing, but the blade follows each of his movements, making his tries useless. “You have, uh... issues?”

“Of course I have issues! Look at me!”

Louis’ eyes widen at the sudden change of tone, at the scrappy voice gone for a second, replaced with the one he remembers from the car thing that feels to have happened years ago.

“Mister Osborn?” He leans back instinctively as his sense flashes, and the dagger's blade cuts air where his throat was a millisecond ago. “Christ. Maybe a dinner first, huh? You seem too eager, lady.”

“Joke away.” The goblin's voice is back with its scratchiness as if the flash of Norman Osborn peaking through had never happened. “I wanna see you try that when you're dying in my hands.”

There’s a questionably sane man somewhere underneath that whole parade of green and horror. Norman Osborn. That's right.

 _That's right_.

“To quote Leonardo DiCaprio…” Louis spreads his arms in an invitation. “I think it's just me and you, and you know what? You're going to have to catch me yourself.”

He does one, two flips, springing out into the emptiness, and curses himself. The closest building is across from the park. Splendid plan.

Running it is then.

Step two: make sure Osborn goes after him and him only. Shouldn’t be that hard given the staggering looks Louis’ been receiving.

“Making my way through a playground, jumpin’ fast,” he hums, choosing another trees and benches to spring off from when the goblin's slider whizzes by his ear and he's met with yellow eyes again. “Jumpin’ faster, _ohmygod_.”

Abilities often surface under pressure so it doesn't really surprise Louis much when his next another jump off a bench sends him several stories up into the air and onto the rooftop of an building reaching fifteen stories high. Still, _holy shit._

Osborn may have a flying iron bat, but the knowledge of the streets of New York works to Louis’ advantage. Most of the alleys in Queens are embedded into his memory, along with all of the street lamps, billboards, and rooftops that don't crumple under the force of his landing.

A swing and jump later he's between two buildings that have enough space for him to jerkily swing between, but not enough for the glider to make it in after him. He's not an idiot, he knows what will wait for him on the other end, so he uses two webs and catapults himself up to the roof of the seven story building.

Once on the ledge, he sprints across the roof, the glider's engine whirring not so far away, and jumps from the edge, aiming with a web for the closest street lamp.

“ _Now_ we're talking.” One, two circles and he's up in the air again, comfort spreading in his chest at the feeling of falling into something that he knows he's good at.

Step three: figure out the rest of the plan as we go.

He was a fool for thinking that he'd be faster on webs and it shows around fifteen seconds into trying to get away from Osborn.

Trick time. He can do tricks.

“Hey, Gobby!” he shouts, turning in his highest point of a swing to wave at the man. “You have a license for that thing?”

Someone once told him that they hide fear with stupidity and he relates to that now, he relates to it hard.

The strategy of utilizing sharp turns and narrow alleys doesn't completely fail, Louis’ still ahead from Osborn, but that may be because he’s taking it easy on Louis and simply running him into the ground just for sport. Joke's on him, Louis’ been overworking himself for a year now. Sleep deprived or not, he's good to go at any moment. 

It kinda doesn't matter how large or narrow the gap between them is as long as they make it to Manhattan. As long as they make it to Manhattan, and then…

Crap.

“Crap. Fuck. Shit. _Idiot_.” Somewhere in between his swings he reaches for his phone which turns out to be quite a task—unzipping a hidden zipper in the middle of swinging like sixty miles per hour is neither easy nor comfortable, and definitely not sexy.

He knew he'd see only a black screen and no response when he pushes the on button, but he still curses at the device as if the insults from the R-rated department are going to recharge the phone with their vitriol. He slips the phone back into its pocket before the urge to throw it on the nearest wall can take the better of him.

“Think, think, think,” he murmurs, taking another turn. Making his way to Manhattan while performing slaloms and twists and turns definitely hasn't worked to his favor time-wise, but now that he actually _needs_ some time, he chooses an alley that will slow him down. “FRIDAY, hey, FRIDAY, speak up, it's an emergency, I need you right now.”

His earpiece still buzzes the police scanner's reports, but other than that, the familiar female voice is nowhere to be heard. He should have hacked and installed her there when he had the chance.

“God _dammit_!” He swings in between two closely set buildings and switches between swinging and crawling up. “For fuck’s sake, FRIDAY, I need you to speak up! I know you're in this suit, come on!”

He almost screams in surprise as his heads-up display suddenly flashes and rotates before setting back into place, updated and paler. He lands on the roof, looking over his shoulder at Osborn, and leaps off, webbing the office building across the street.

“FRIDAY?”

He can almost _feel_ the AI's nod. He'd hug it if he could.

“ _Full capabilities unlocked. Case: emergency. Incoming call from: Tony Stark._ ”

“Waitwaitwait, no—”

“Mister Tomlinson,” Tony's stern voice almost makes him miss the lamp he aimed for. “What in gay hell?”

“Oh, hey! You watch _Queer Eye_?”

“Louis.”

Inhale. “Norman Osborn stabbed himself with some Krabby Patty secret formula, turned green, killed his old co-workers and his wife, and now he's after me because I didn't want to be his guinea pig. Hehasyelloweyesand _aknife_.”

“What—Slow down.” Tony exhales sharply. “I can see you pulling some circus crap in the middle of the night, what are you doing?”

Louis springs off of another pole. “You can see me?”

“Satellites, kid, where's your IQ gone?”

“Down in gay hell.”

“Just pretend I never asked that. Now, elaborate. I'm on my way, but it'll take a while. I was away at a conference. You're lucky my suit’s with me.”

Louis sighs, pulling himself high up, his heart doing a flip at the sight at finally tall buildings of the second half of Queens Boulevard.

“Remember that Oscorp explosion?”

“Better than my dinner,” Tony replies carefully.

“Scrambled eggs and toast, sir,” comes a reply from a male robotic voice.

“Hey, JARVIS! And then remember that explosion at the Oscorp mansion?”

“Sure do.”

“Norman Osborn did that.”

“Kid, cut the Crazy Town crap. Norman Osborn is long dead.”

Louis whines at the kindergarten teacher tone of the man's voice.

“See, that's what I thought, too. Unfortunately, he looks very much alive, and so does the murderous intent all over his green mug.”

There's a pause on Tony's side for several seconds until he sighs in surrender.

“Talk.”

“Okay. Hear me out and don’t cut in. A couple o’ weeks ago he drove up to my school and wanted me to come with him so he could extract the OZ, aka that thing that they had from the spider that bit me, because apparently I am the only living creature that survived an intake of that OZ in some form. Which, alright, believable. He's singing _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ , I can't believe this.” He flips in the air to throw the goblin thumbs up and falls back into the swinging. “Anyway, he got kinda mad because I refused, I mean, not to be picky, but the choices were getting dissected on a lab table and being alive. Just because I look like a zombie doesn't mean I wanna become one. So the same day he must 'ave gone quite insane and done some shit with the OZ and inject himself, and that gave him some skin problems big time. Like, he’s all sandpaper and green. He also stole some props from Oscorp and he's currently flying behind me like he's having the time of his life and he probably is, which is kinda creepy.”

There's quiet on the line for a few seconds and Louis actually get scared that the call got cut.

“Mister Stark?”

“Tony,” comes a quick, steady reply. “Look, I need you to get out of there.”

“Blood’s gonna be shed if I don’t—”

“Dammit, kid, I am _not_ ready to see you donate your share!” Tony bursts out.

“You'd rather see guiltless civilians’ brains all over the streets? I'm the only chance we have for now, sir, and you know it.”

“There's Daredevil, there's—”

“They're on the other side of the city and Osborn is my problem, not theirs. I gotta end this on my own.”

“Kid, Osborn would have gone green with or without your interference, he's a nutjob. He's not your responsibility.”

“He'd argue with you on that point, and so would I. I'm not asking for permission to take him down, Mister Stark. I have a plan and I need FRIDAY to do me a solid.”

“You have a plan,” Tony sounds more expectant than dumbfounded, which at least doesn’t take away from Louis’ pride. 

“Step three is coming up with the rest of the plan.”

“What were steps one and two?”

“Keep calm and have the nutface focused on me.”

“Genius.”

“Came up with that all by myself.” Louis decides to take action and fires a single web, aiming for the goblin's eyes. Osborn's reflexes turn out to not be half bad and he swoops to the side, avoiding the fluid. Louis falls back into his routine, tuning and swinging into another alley. “Anyhoo, let's do opposite of the OZ. A stimulant to counteract and deactivate it. Change the molecular structure so it can no longer work.”

“An antidote?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“You need a blood sample or the OZ for that,” Tony remarks. 

“Yeah, FRIDAY has my blood samples.”

“FRIDAY has your blood samples.” He doesn’t sound surprised.

“Yeah, we were—Nevermind. She has them. And if she has them, I thought she could make the anti thing on her own in the workshop. Lab. Whatever. If we do that, he’s down but still alive. Can she do that?”

“She can, but it will take time. At least half an hour, kid.”

Louis throws a glance over his shoulder. “I can work with that.”

Another second filled with silence falls on Tony's side, and Louis takes this time to get another shots at Osborn. This time he cheers as a plaster of web gets on the man's eyes and he stops abruptly, hovering high over the street while Louis takes off and picks up his pace.

“I worry about you,” Tony says finally, a bit quieter than before.

Louis smiles reassuringly, as if the man could see that.

“I'll be fine. Distract him a little. Then get to the tower and do what has to be done. Oh, and I would appreciate it if I could enter through the gateway we used the first time you drove me there,” he adds and spins mid-air. “And if the serum was in a syringe capable of pinning through a tough layer of skin.”

"That can be arranged. I'll be there, I promise, you’re not alone," Tony assures gravely. “Just don't do anything stupid. He's not another day-to-day bank robber with a discount rifle, okay?”

“I know.”

“I care about you. We all do.”

That hits Louis enough for him to lose his balance for a second. He swallows.

“I know, Tony.”

“I'll be there.”

“I know.”

Tony sighs heavily.

“Your suit will host FRIDAY for the time being. Don't mess with the web-shooters, if you use the full capability settings it might not be pretty.”

“I won’t.”

“See you soon. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid. End call.”

Louis realizes he's made it to the outskirts of Queens the moment he sees the Queensboro Bridge. He glances behind himself to check if the goblin's still behind. He is, furious and faster.

It dawns on Louis only now that they might do some harm to pedestrians and drivers, and it twists his guts. He needs to keep this up. He can't get anyone in more danger than they already are. Who knows what Osborn is capable of?

The knife flying past his ear is the perfect example of why he shouldn't ask himself dumb questions.

He crosses the bridge with jumps, swings, and a range of flips, accompanied by the goblin's soft spot for _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ , and almost throws a fist in the air at the sight of actual made-for-swinging buildings and skyscrapers.

He swings out of the bridge construction, and webs the first of many tall blocks, remembering that he's got an AI to his use.

“FRIDAY, you there?”

“ _At your service._ ”

Louis lets out a sigh of relief, aiming for another high spot. Long swings are his favorite swings.

“Can you check if my aunt's safe? And Harry? Harry Styles? We parted at the Calvary Cemetery.”

“ _On it._ ”

“Thanks. What about that antidote? Will it work?”

It takes FRIDAY a moment to answer which Louis uses to take a three-sixty around a billboard and swinging under the goblin’s slider. He then catches himself on a pole and springs into yet another space between two blocks. He gives thumbs up two teenagers who stop their makeout session to look up at him, and scales the wall.

“ _On you, yes. On Norman Osborn, not so sure. We don't know what modifications he made to the OZ. It's still definitely worth a shot_.”

Louis considers the AI’s words for a couple of seconds. He could try and fight the goblin, but if their powers sort of match, it wouldn’t be very effective and would likely cause harm. He’s not stupid, he knows he’s not a skilled fighter.

“Use what you can, break into the Oscorp database. If the OZ is in a private database and untrackable, just use my blood. Better that than uselessly trying to kick ass. Let's try to weaken him before we attempt to break our bones, shall we?”

“ _Good decision. Preparation of the OZ antiserum begun. Jay Tomlinson status: alive. Location: Jamaica Hospital Medical Center. Harry Styles status: alive. Location: Queens Boulevard. Tony Stark, ETA—thirty-four minutes._ ”

“Thanks, FRIDAY. Keep me posted.”

The plan seems simple enough—keep Norman Osborn distracted until the antiserum is done. And since it’s always easier said than done, he has to fight his way through the bullshit and gain some time.

Louis leans over the ledge of the building and meets Osborn's eyes.

“Having fun?” He sits down and starts kicking his legs like a child despite the stress rolling in his chest and exhaustion starting to sting all of his muscles due to the constant swinging. He doesn't think he’s ever webbed his way such a distance without a break.

The goblin shoots him a smile tinged with madness and a murderous gaze, and Louis’ first to admit that it gets boring, the looks that he’s getting from the man.

“I’ve been enjoying myself, I must admit. It's entertaining to see you try to escape the inevitable whilst I haven't even broken a sweat.”

Louis coughs dramatically. “See, now you're just showing off.”

He pushes off the ledge, catching his feet on the wall, and springs down, already anchoring a long string of web onto the opposite tower. He falls back into swinging, sporadically glancing back to make sure that Osborn’s behind him and not putting anyone on the ground in danger. 

“You’re really gonna just chase me like that?” he shouts a question over his shoulder a couple of minutes later. “You could have killed me ten times already!”

“Death doesn’t hurt enough, does it?” Comes the response with a dagger accompanying it.

Louis dodges, catching the blade on a webstring, and throws at towards the nearest roof. “Alright, then, let’s swing some more.”

That quickly shows itself to be a dumb decision.

He’s pretty sure his shoulders are gonna dislocate soon and his abdominals feel as though they are gonna rip apart in a few seconds, but he's gotta be smart now and tired later. He chooses one of highest buildings with a flat enough roof, and makes his way to its top where he settles onto the ledge, breathing heavily and looking down at approaching Osborn.

“How are we lookin’, Fri?”

“ _Twenty three minutes and fifteen seconds_.”

Norman Osborn faces him again, but this time, much to Louis’ bewilderment, he hides the blades from the front of the glider and sits down on it. Louis would laugh it it wasn’t so strangely unsettling.

The man scans Louis up and down, watching curiously as he chooses the moment to change the pellets in his web-shooters.

“You’re not giving up, are you?” Osborn man asks in that weird voice again.

Louis shrugs. “It’s one of my birth defects.”

“Indomitable will is strength, Mister Tomlinson, a gift. Strong will is power.”

Louis locks the empty pellets on the clips, entwines his fingers on his lap, and looks up to the sky, praying for the man to put an end to his cheesy one-liners.

“It also means I burnt my friend’s kettle because I was too stubborn to listen to him when he said I was incapable of making tea on my own.”

“You’re one amazing creature, Spider-Man, you know,” the man says, squinting his eyes in interest. “Quick. Agile. Strong. Smart. Maybe you and I aren’t so different, after all.”

Louis grimaces in disagreement, shifting his gaze down. He’s reminded of the times when his thirteen years old self once thought that going to a random roof just because it was cool was a good idea. He remembers the sheer sting of fear and physical ache that draped his chest at the sight of the height underneath him, and the wooden step he took back once he realized that he couldn’t take a second more of that terrifying view.

Now that he’s sitting at a height that a normal human eye would only see blur down on the streets while he can distinguish single people and the plates, he feels oddly empowered. So many things have changed since he was a scrawny nerd sporting his dad’s old glasses.

“You’re insane, Mister Osborn,” he responds finally, looking back up.

He’s met with a vicious glare. "Watch your tongue. While it's still attached.”

“You threatening me? I—I feel threatened, okay, I can work past that.” He inhales sharply and swallows the fear. “See, if my spotty memory is correct, I recall telling you I wasn't gonna become your guinea pig. I have no recollection of telling you to lean into turning yourself into a monster. Because that's what you are. You've become a monster, sir. Face it.” He throws a hand up when he sees the man opening his mouth to talk back. “You killed your old coworkers. Not only the ones that you apparently murdered days ago—which I'm mad I never heard about, but in my defense I was busy not caring—but also the ones that burned in the explosion. They didn’t deserve to be victims of your selfishness.

“Then you killed your wife and God knows what's up with your kid. And here you are now, in full shit vigilante mode, trying to exact your revenge. But revenge on what? On me making a responsible, conscientious and sane decision for once? On me, a kid who made the choice anyone in his position would make to not allow himself to be cut to pieces just because one guy couldn't diagnose himself soon enough? You're getting revenge because you weren't smart enough to figure out the OZ for years? You're getting revenge on a seventeen-year-old for standing up and defending his rights? There are people who can have your hands cuffed in an hour. Yet you're here now, with a murderous intent against a person who did nothing wrong against you. And if you can’t see that, you really are insane, and there's something wrong with you that you need to fix.”

Osborn growls, his eyes narrowing and nostrils fluttering.

“Watch it, squirt.”

“You’re insane. You are,” Louis pushes despite the clear sign in the man’s eyes that he’s just crossed a line. There’s a thin layer of air between stupidity and bravery, and Louis has just stomped on both of them with each foot. “Because let's use logic. You kill me, and then... what? Your company will never have you back. Your wife won't come back from the dead. You will end up in the Vault. You killing me won't solve any of your problems.”

“But you'll be dead.”

“And you’ll be just another murderous, unhinged moron.”

Osborn doesn’t answer for a couple of dreadful seconds filled with nothing but whooshing wind, the slider’s whirring engine, and the few screams coming from the street. Then he tilts his head back, standing back up on the board, and looking down at Louis in pure, dripping with venom rage.

Fighting the fear-driven urge to throw up, Louis nods in response, lips curling into his first genuine smile in ages even though the man can’t see it. 

“Before we go at it again, I'll have to remind you that I, well... I live to disappoint. Try to keep up.”

With that said, a split second later he dives into a  free fall while a blade cuts the air where he’s just been sitting. He twists, getting a quick look-see at Park Avenue, at the end of which is his destination.

“FRIDAY?”

“ _Nineteen minutes, twelve seconds_.”

He webs another building, swinging low above the cars accompanied by calls and shouts.

“ _Spider-Man and the goblin located. Park Avenue, I repeat, Spider-Man and the goblin—_ ”

When his senses scream at him to turn around it’s too late—one wing of the glider hits him hard and deep in his chest and a heartbeat later he’s broken through at least two walls of what the scraps of his conscience recognize as a Hillstone restaurant.

He tries to get up from where he’s fallen behind a bar, and he barely makes it to the countertop before he’s met with the blinding blaze of an explosion.

  


“ _10-33, 10-33, Park Avenue. Evacuate the locals. 10-33…”_

“ _All cars, proceed with caution_.”

“ _Shoot on sight_ , _I repeat_...”

Louis tries to breathe through his nose. The air burns into his lungs, making him cough. _Fucking hell._

He concentrates on the sharp pain in his chest, tries to use it to keep himself grounded. He's here, he's just lying on what's left from the restaurant. He's not floating around, he's here, on dusty rubble, rocks digging into his back. Not a pleasant situation, but better alive and broken rather than biting the dust.

There's no tight bite of duct tape binding his arms together behind his back, there's no rope, no chains, nothing. He’s not tied down, not held hostage or some shit. The last thing he recalls is the blur of the street, buildings, sky, and people. Then it was dark. 

"Wake up."

Louis doesn't struggle. He can't. Physically can't. And he pays for it in an instant.

He takes numerous punches to the stomach and face, bones pop, jar, and creak. One, two three, he stops counting, it’s just hit, hit, hit. He tastes the blood in his mouth, dripping in a line down his face where the mask has apparently blown off. At some point he leans to one side, half of his back still rested on something solid he hasn't identified yet, and spits the blood onto the floor in a lousy spray. 

It hurts. That's the first coherent thing his brain produces. A thought. _Hurts_.

His voice is hoarse and words barely coherent but that’s not enough to stop him from running his mouth.

"Why're you doin' this?"

In contrast, Osborn's voice is steady but he still breathes heavily from physical exertion.

"You took everything from me."

"I..." Louis swallows, straightening up, eyes still pressed shut, aching. "I haven't done... anything. To you. You're nuts.”

Wrong answer to no question. Another punch lands under his ribs. He lets out a sharp yelp, arms wandering to cover himself. They’re batted away.

A hand grabs the couple of strands of bloodied hair and a piece of loose material of the mask and yanks his head back, pressing it into whatever he's leaning against, forcing him to finally take in the area.

Clenching his jaws with pain, he immediately scopes out the room, his vision slightly blurred. Or rather, what's left of the restaurant. The dust still hovers in the air, the street is empty, some screams can be heard in the distance. One exit, one entry—the blown up wall.

"You made me do things I never wanted to do," Osborn hisses, face way too close to be considered anything but…

"Are you... threatening me?" Louis chokes out. “Again? Change your playlist, dude, s’ gettin’ boring.”

His hand wanders up to grab on the man's wrist, but it's quickly slapped away. He hisses.

“You're gonna suffer like I did. Like I do. Like you made me do.”

“You're deranged, Christ, you really are. Go to hell.”

Louis’ head lolls back down when the fingers holding it upright uncurl and the heel of a hand pushes against his forehead. One thing he has to say, step two went excellent. He’d say that if he wasn’t hissing, the pressure on his skull barely tolerable.

"You think you can swing around the city every day, save old ladies, and be okay with having the upper hand in every fight. Flowers and rainbows abound. I know you. I’ve studied you. You'll get nothing of that, boy, you'll never find peace through sleepless nights, never find absolution by filling every free hour, never—”

He can't help himself, he just can’t. The opportunity is too perfect. He crashes his head against the man’s face. A crack and crunch echo in his ears. He grins with satisfaction, blood getting into his mouth again.

“You talk too much.”

He takes the handful of seconds of distraction to orient himself yet again—a mound of rubble, a wall behind him. The shelves that once hung where he's rested poke out from the dirt on the floor. Nothing’s on fire, but whatever the lobby and bar of Hillstone looked like before, now it’s a complete ruin of rubble, broken glass, chairs and stools broken into pieces, and dust. Louis isn’t sure if it’s a miracle that’s keeping the building standing or if they’ve just managed to miss all of the major structural supports. Whatever it is, he’s beyond grateful. He’s not scared of death, he just doesn’t want to die yet.

A fist comes at him and he doesn't even get to react properly before the echo of a shot cuts through the air.

He sees a flicker of loss on Osborn's face and uses the opportunity to gather some strength, twist, and send the man to the other side of the room with an uneven but still forceful kick.

He didn't plan this through. Just like everything, really, as it turns out. He's now face down in the dusty rubble, almost no air to breathe with, and no power to get up. He gasps, coughs, and grunts.

When he forces himself to move again he discovers that everything is hurting even more. Hurts so much. Something's broken. Maybe sprained. He focuses on the pain radiating through his ankle, ribs, shoulders, and head, using anything to anchor his mind onto the present, to not let himself drift off.

There's a chance that his hair hurts, too. Because science.

He focuses on his first priority—to get on his knees. He’ll consider what to do about the green mound crumpled across the room later.

Or, wait, no, hold the phone. He's got to… fight. Get up. Yeah, he has to get up and fight.

There's someone approaching him, and it's not Osborn. He senses a figure stepping closer and closer. Is he imagining it? No, he can feel it in the vibrations every step creates. And where did that bullet come from? Shit, his mask is half off, and h— 

“Hey, Webhead, you alright?”

No. Not _him_.

“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” he rasps out wincing at the ache that speaking causes. “You gonna… gonna shoot me again?”

He gets a moment of silence in response. “If you give me a reason to.”

"Always with your reasons.” He sighs towards the rocks still under his face. “What are you, a fairy godmother?"

The man chuckles and continues his approach. The next breath is cut off by a cough as Louis tries and fails to turn his head towards where the man now crouches by Louis' side.

He's assisted in his attempt to turn onto his back, the rubble digging into his muscles, and that's when he hears the guy's breath catching in his throat. He lets out a weak chuckle.

“Lost my shot at a shirtless _Playboy_ cover, haven't I?”

“No, no, I... you're…” The man swallows. “You're just a fucking kid. You're that curly haired dude’s boyfriend from a couple days back.”

 _Harry_. Is Harry safe? He’s probably dead. Did Osborn get him?

“Not my boyfriend.” He probably did. God, what if he did?

“Whatever floats your boat. Still a kid.”

He so did. Did he get to Jay, too? Ohmygodohmy—

“I still want a rematch. Just help me get up, man, this ain't necessarily a five star king bed I’m lounging on.”

“No, you don't get it. I shot a _kid_.”

Louis lolls his head to the side to get a look of the guy who appears downright agitated like a child with a dead squirrel in their hands.

“Hey, it's alright.” He tries to smile despite the heaviness he can feel growing in his lungs. His rib cage aches with every breath. His head, his… His mask is off. He's known to a mercenary now. Jesus. He _will_ die. He’s probably already half dead. “You didn't… know, okay? And if you haven't noticed, I have more important things to deal with at the moment than explaining…. explaining consent and secret identities to you.”

The man shakes his head. “That doesn't make it right.”

"You didn't... know. Didn't—I'm—I gotta..." Louis' heart drops into his stomach. Stops beating altogether. Are his hands shaking? Or is it his whole body? It all hurts, that’s for sure. _Oh, God_.

Insides screaming in protest, he makes to get up, at least tries to. Is that blood on his suit? He’s definitely dying. He stumbles back after moving an inch. His chest hurts. Broken. His ribs are done for. And he doesn't seem to be able to get his breath back. Shallow, hollow-chested panic floods through his mind as he wheezes in a choppy breath.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, tries to use his vocal cords.

“I don't… don’t know what's happenin’.”

The silence is becoming tense and heavy, and Louis expects the guy to walk away laughing, because hey, look, your Spider-Man is no man! He's a kid in a onesie! And he's about to have a panic attack! Ain't it hysterical?

His muscles are straining and he closes his eyes preparing to go through the hell he’s only heard about until now. Blood starts rushing in his ears as he faintly registers a gentle hand curling around his wrist.

“What's your name, kid?”

Louis breathes out a cracked laugh, pressing his eyes shut tighter. “What?”

“What's your name?” the man repeats in the same calm voice.

Louis scowls when the man scoops him up from the rubble, hugging him tight to his chest, and begins to walk.

“Louis,” he mutters into the guy’s collarbone. “My name's... Louis.”

“Hi, Louis. My name’s Wade. Can you take a breath for me?”

 _Wade_. They’re out of the building. Louis’ being set by a wall on the sidewalk, currently empty of people. He twitches when Wade's hand takes a light grip on his wrist.

Some scraps of his conscience decide that it's not the time for jokes and cockiness. He takes a breath. It's shallow and shaky, but still there.

“Now let it out. Slowly.”

He does as he's told. There’s no room for arguments.

“Good. Keep on breathing. Can I move your hand?”

Louis nods. Or does he? Does he? Apparently he does because his arm is being detached from his chest and a moment later his palm is being flattened against Wade's clothed rib cage, right under a thick jacket.

“Focus on me. Can you feel my heart beating?” Wade pauses and gives Louis time to nod. “Good. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. You’re here with me. We’re on Park Avenue, planet Earth, and I’m not going to hurt you. Breathe with me, okay?”

Sirens. There are sirens closing in. The police. Osborn.

“But the goblin—”

“He's knocked out for now, he's irrelevant.” Wade’s fingers tighten around Louis’ hand reassuringly. “You won't kick his ass if you're in the middle of a panic attack. Or dead. Now work with me. Inhale. Hold. One, two, three, four. Hold for seven seconds, exhale for eight. I’ll count.”

Louis doesn't dispute anymore. They take deep breaths together, in and out, like he's got amnesia and is learning how to use his lungs again.

“That's it. Attaboy. Let’s do it once more.”

It feels like hours that they sit there teaching him how to live again, but when he finds that he doesn’t need to force the next lungful of air, he sighs with relief. When Louis' eyes crack open, Wade is smiling, but there's a hastily disguised horror in his eyes, like he's just seen a ghost but that ghost is reading him _Cinderella_ to bed.

“Thank you,” Louis rasps out, curling his fingers on the man's shirt and looking up at the ceiling. “Thanks.”

“Better?”

Louis takes a minute to think about it. Everything hurts with the same intensity as before, but his chest is now rising and falling in steady breaths, and his heart doesn't seem to try to be trying to hammer its way out from his ribs.

“Yeah. I think I am,” he says finally. Only now does he register the way his jaw is doing funny creaks. “I need to get up.”

“What you need is to stand down,” Wade remarks firmly. “The iron dildo and his groupies should be here soon, right? The bastard’s always first to show up. You need to rest, kid. You look like a topographic map of Antarctica splattered with ketchup.”

Louis ignores him, looking away, hope still boiling in his aching heart. “FRIDAY?”

 _“Tony Stark, ETA—three minutes, ten seconds. Antiserum ready in—fifty eight seconds._ ”

He turns his head to focus back at the man. “I need to do that alone. Tony's only on his way.”

“Yeah, ex-fucking-actly, he’s _on his_ _way_. You can't do everything alone, Louis," Wade pushes, letting go of Louis' hands. “You need help, ambulance, you're bleeding. You can barely move.”

Louis huffs in response and starts shifting on the ground. He sets his hands on the wall underneath him, sticking to the surface just in case, and pushes his upper body up. He hisses, groans, and suppresses screams of pain, staring at the two cuts on his chest, remains from the hit he took of the glider as he supposes.

“You're so fucking stubborn, I can't believe it.”

To his surprise, Wade straightens up from his crouch and positions himself by Louis’ side where he helps him up.

“That’s it.” He holds Louis’ elbow steadily as Louis stumbles and scowls in pain in his ankle. “You should be grateful it’s me and not Castle, he’d chain you to the closest lamp and knock out as soon as you said a word.”

“Frank Castle?” Louis faintly recalls. It’s good to know his brain is fully online and functioning. To some extent. 

“Real pain in the ass, much like you, but with more shooting and less asking. In fact, there's no asking. He's as talkative as half a brick with paper mouth glued to it.”

Louis coughs out a short laugh, and cooperates with Wade. It takes a lot of ‘oh, my God’s and ‘oh, shit’s, but he's finally on his legs. Hunching, and _ouch, my ankle_ , but still up.

That's when he starts taking notes. As for the suit, the fronts of his legs are scratched but not torn open, unlike his chest and shoulders which are shredded enough to expose a lot of his skin. It’s dirty and red of the fresh blood steadily dripping from the cuts on his sternum and a couple of splashes from his face. He spits out what’s left of the blood in his mouth, and reaches up to assess his mask—the left side is full-on cliche, completely blown off from his mouth to his ear and reaching up to  his hairline, several pieces are hanging loose from the edges. He gets rid of them, snatching the pieces of material and ripping off what’s left. It feels weird to have only one lens that somehow still works. He supposes that the core of the system wasn’t damaged.

Wade steps in front of him and shrugs off his jacket. 

“Can you take off that onesie?”

Louis snorts and sniffles. Realizes it’s blood that flew out of his nose. Rubs his nose with the remains of the suit.

“I don’t put out on a first date, dear Mister Casanova.” 

But Wade’s face is stern and way more serious than Louis would have assumed it would be at the sight of a kid barely standing on his own to feet. Louis supposes war does things to one's mind. He clears his throat and immediately regrets it as sharp ache cuts through his chest.

“Okay, just, let me, uh…” He presses what’s left of the spider on his sternum. His jaws set in annoyance and defeat when the button doesn’t react. “I think it broke.”

Wade nods. “We can work with that, too. Arms up, kiddo."

“Wha—”

“Just do it, Chrissakes, you’re going to bleed out.”

Usually, Louis would question why Wade is stripping off his own shirt and if perhaps he should run away. Usually. This ain’t usually. So he just stares as the man puts the jacket back on before he rips his shirt along the seams and folds it in two, creating a long strip of material.

“Arms up, Louis.”

Louis stares until it clicks, and then does as he's told for Wade to tie the shirt around his chest. The material covers his wounds and tightens around his ribcage when the man makes a knot on his back in a more delicate way that it’s necessary.

“That should stop the bleeding a little bit. For two minutes until you kick-start the acrobatic circus again. I have no water or any shit to clean the wounds so you better do it quick.”

 _“Serum status: ready to pick up_ . _Opening the gate._ ”

Okay. Okay, he can do this.

“You sure you’re alright?” Wade asks, standing in front of Louis again. He eyes the boy up and down with pure concern written all over his face. “It’s rhetorical. I think you have cracked ribs and some dirt and blood all over your… Uh.” He draws a circle with his hand, eyebrows wandering up. “Everything.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Louis clicks his web-shooters together and tries each one of them on the nearest wall. A short sigh of relief leaves his mouth when the artificial web works like it’s supposed to. The web fluid level is still high.

He touches the temporary bandage that's already starting to get blood-soaked and looks back up at Wade. The man seems on the edge of cuffing Louis to the nearest whatever and keeping him in place until the ER can come.

“Thanks for that,” Louis says, touching the fabric again. “And for shooting him. I guess. He's gonna get up but thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, I owe you. How are you feeling?”

“On a scale from agony to I broke my favorite rib? Seven.”

Wade snorts.

“You’ll live. Gotta further the plot. You said he’ll get up again?”

Louis looks behind his shoulder, checking on the rubble that’s still dirt and ashes in the air, Osborn’s body invisible yet, there’s no sounds coming from inside, so he’s most likely still out.

“If his healing is better than mine, and I have reasons to think it is, he’ll recover from a shot in the head in a few minutes.” His shoulders come up in a shrug as he glances back at Wade whose face contains more expressions at once than Louis’ got webs drawn on his suit. “The only way to win this fight is an antiserum or cutting his head off.”

“So all I did was buy us some time? What a waste of a bullet; coulda done that old-fashioned way with a brick or two.” Wade sighs. His eyes soften. “I’m sorry I shot you,” his tone goes purely apologetic. “I don’t shoot kids. Kids are off the table.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel better. I’ll lose sleep over you, kiddo.”

“Tell you what.” Louis punches Wade’s shoulder playfully and hisses in pain when his ribs sting. Stupid. “Thanks for patching me up. And saving me. Consider yourself redeemed.”

“You’re totally welcome.” The man smiles through the obvious worry. “Everyone needs some help sometimes, yeah? Even Spider-Man.”

Louis flashes him a small, painstaking smile.

“Thanks again.” He takes a few wobbly steps away from the man. “You can sleep tight, Wade, we’re good. Stay gold. Don’t do drugs, use condoms, eat carrots.”

He’s quick to learn that walking is agony. Or limping, in his case. Wade’s by his side in an instant, wordlessly helping him step over the remains of the walls scattered partially on the trashed sidewalk. He lets go of Louis the moment he starts looking around, squinting his eyes at the brightness coming from the street lamps.

Louis has a total of two point four seconds of relaxation—he counts—before his sense flashes and he's dodging the two blades of the goblin's glider, pushing Wade away.

The fuzzy reflexes get him looking down in surprise, but not reacting in time, as a metallic cord tightens around his ankles. The moment he starts thinking about a way out he's face down on the rubble, barely managing to put his hands on the ground first to break the fall,  the next thing he registers is being several stories above the ground.

“What the hell?!”

His shout breaks, throat still tight, attempting to get control over his body as Osborn relentlessly takes rapid twists and turns, using the momentum to swing him into walls and tear screams out of Louis’ chest. On the third try, he manages to flex his abdominals enough to reach  up and catch the line. He tries tearing it. No result. 

“Let me go!”

He should be more careful about what he's asking for, really. Osborn does one more turn, swinging Louis' body around, and does the one thing Louis asked him for.

Louis' eyes widen at the realisation that the cord has just been detached from the glider and he's now cutting through the air at a breakneck with no support other than a rapidly loosening rope around his ankles.

He counts one inhale. Maybe half of an exhale.

Sudden pain shoots through his body and stops him from trying to turn around and situate himself. It stops him from trying anything. Breathing, moving. Is his heart beating? It should be. God, it _has_ to.

Something cracks casing his brain to flickers online again. He easily notes that it was his cheekbone.

“We're not done yet. Wake up.”

Another sharp, stinging pain cutting across his face forces his eyes open and his lungs to wheeze in a shaky breath.

He blinks, making himself glance around. He regrets it immediately. He'd rather he didn't know that he had just been punched into a wall on the highest point of the tallest skyscraper in Manhattan. A fragment  of the rubble falls off his head and he tracks it as it speeds down the ninety three stories of the Stark Tower and crashes onto the ground.

Downstairs. The workshop. Right.

He grunts, closing his fists and looking up, his neck resenting every millisecond of it.

Osborn is hovering in front of him with undisguised, malicious joy all over his face, toying with a dagger like it's a Rubik's Cube, not a dangerous weapon that he's about to commit murder with.

“And what now?” Louis croaks out, tearing his arm off the dent it made in the wall. He hisses in pain as he tugs the remains of his mask off and uses it to wipe away the blood falling into his eyes, revealing all the fear and pain he always keeps hidden away underneath the material. “Sorry, gotta look decent on my… my own deathbed. You know, the everlasting Google photoshoot.”

The man laughs shortly, watching him intensely.

“You’re all alone. Pathetic, as ever. You’ll die alone, too.” He moves closer to Louis and sets the tip of the blade against Louis' trembling chest, digging into the uncovered skin a little. "The day of reckoning is here, Spider-Man. Any last words?”

_You’re cheesier than Twilight._

Louis hasn’t always valued his life, but knowing now that it could end so quickly and with a single decisive move, that these could be his last seconds, he can’t help but feel that it’s all been... wasted. That’s a good word.

Wasted life, wasted time, wasted man. Wasted days. Days spent on self pity, the ones spent on denial and the ones spent on closing in on himself. People he’s pushed off, the help he’s refused so often, hearts he might have broken, words that he shouldn’t have said.

Normally, he’d laugh at himself for being cliche. Because he’s being absolutely cliche. Isn’t that what all those characters in books do? Recall their mistakes and human beings they hurt during their lives?

That’s when it catches up to him. All of it. Like a soft knock on the door, a gentle push on the knob, and a wave crashing in. 

He takes a second to lock eyes with the dark ones across from him, a little hazy, a bit dizzy. The crazed eyes of an insane murderer, billionaire turned bat-shit crazy killer, and smiles. He coughs on the blood mixed with spit in his mouth and catches a breath.

He could use some shut-eye.

“You ever been tired?”

The last thing he sees before drifting off is a glow. His eyes fog into black. An indistinct voice calls his name.

The last thing he thinks is, he lost.

 

**April the 15th, Sunday**

 

The first time he wakes up, it's to soft, regular beeping. He recognizes the rhythm of a familiar heartbeat, then he notices the smell of overly expensive perfume, and the face of a billionaire.

He might be telling Louis to go back to sleep.  He doesn't need to be told twice.

  


The second time he wakes, there's no beeping. There are only soft sheets, dimmed light, and steady breathing coming from somewhere on his left.

He doesn't need to be instructed. He falls back asleep in an instant.

 

**April the 16th, Monday**

 

The third time, he's curled on his side in the same sheets, and just as before he's not alone. There's quiet whir coming from behind his back, a sound that Louis recognises as holograms being put in use, and a cup being placed onto a wooden surface.

“Tony?” His voice sounds like nails scratching on a board, but he doesn't care. He wants to sleep. Wants to know that he's not alone.

The reply comes immediately.

“I'm here, kid.”

Louis rolls over, snatching a smaller pillow. “Good.”

Not caring as to whether he's interrupting Tony or not, he drapes his arm over the man's middle, tucks the pillow under his head, and dozes off on Tony's side.

  


The next time he wakes it’s heavens better. Three out of fifty, but still.

He’s nuzzled deep into a pillow and alone in the room. The first thing he notices of is that there's no longer the hum of machines monitoring him and the sheets he’s laying on aren't bleached to within an inch of their life. As a matter of fact, they're dark and heavenly soft, clearly never slept in before.

It’s warm, cozy, and everything he has been refusing to give into for so long that he’s forgotten how it feels. He sighs into the material and hugs the pillow tighter, the duvet falling off his shoulder.

That’s when he realizes he’s clothed. And there is something tight around his rib cage. And on his face, too. And his ankle.

So he's a mummy. Nice.

He shifts on the bed and lies on his back. Opening his eyes means waking up properly and he doesn’t want to wake up. He can sleep later, though, but for now there's a question to be answered, and it starts with 'what' and ends with 'the hell'. An argument can be made for 'the fuck’.

His eyes flutter open hesitantly, fighting the weight that’s trying to keep them pressed shut, and he's immediately grateful for the dimness in the room. He takes in his surroundings—the king bed he’s lying on, the wall of windows on the left, letting in the slightest dust of sunlight and exposing a view of New York below, the lamp at his bedside giving the least light possible. There’s a door directly across from the bed, a single chair by the wall, and a cup on that chair saying ‘Stark Industries’. For some reason it makes him smile.

His mind floods with questions in an instant—did he win? No, he lost. What’s with Osborn? Is he actually safe? What about Jay? And Harry? Where’s Tony? Is Wade alright?

His head doesn’t seem fond of the sudden onslaught of thoughts because it immediately starts pulsing with pain, making Louis hiss and reach up to press his hands against the sudden pressure. He frowns at the sensation of material stretching once his arms go up. He tugs the sheets down and exposes his torso, dressed in a plain white shirt, then grabs the hem of the tee and lifts it up to his chin.

“Definitely not getting that Playboy cover,” he mutters at the sight of upper body bandaged neatly from hips to his collarbones. “I'll do a commercial for some selective garbage sorting guide. Beggars can't be choosers.”

He drops the shirt back into place and reaches up to his face. He finds a single plaster above his left eyebrow, most probably covering the cut that had bled into his eye during the fight.

He lifts his arms up twisting them back and forth to get a look at his skin. He must have been cleaned which would be incredibly embarrassing if it wasn’t for the gratitude he’s beginning to feel. Someone took care of him and prevented him from bleeding out—it’s really not the place to get all flustered because they saw what’s in his pants.

There are healed scars and bruises, mottled skin that looks like a still healing burn, just a couple of inches on his forearm. His body is made up of muddied hues of greens and blues, and he doesn't even want to know what color his face is. Apparently his accelerated healing takes more time when the beating comes from someone stronger than him. And when a bomb blows up several feet away from his face.

When he tries to move his ankle it turns out to be stabilized. Looks like he was right when he thought he sprained it.

A knock on the door tears him out of the little daze.

“Come in.” His throat scratches like sandpaper and his brain feels loopy, so he can only hope that he'll be able to run a coherent conversation. “I guess.”

His breath catches at the edge of his throat, almost makes him choke at the sight of a red bandana appearing as the door slides open.

Harry’s eyes immediately settle onto Louis, heavy and conflicted as they take in his appearance with all his injuries and patch-ups. His lips set in a firm line, he can’t seem to meet Louis gaze making it hard for him to figure out what he’s feeling as he stands in the doorway. 

Louis’ initial shock wears off as soon as his mind does a quick recap of the past events and actually makes sense of who's standing in the door. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he states and clears his throat, his voice still hoarse.

He goes to push himself up on the bed, groaning from the pain suddenly shooting across his body. He pauses when he realises that Harry hasn’t moved an inch. Even to help him up.

That's when he sees his jean jacket held tightly in Harry's hands and it's enough of a punch in the gut to remind him about his responsibility.

“Three fractured ribs,” Harry starts quietly enough for Louis to force himself to focus on his strained voice.

“One Louis Tomlinson.”

“Three fractured ribs, a sprained ankle, bruised elbow, broken nose, a wheelbarrow of bruises, and a concussion. And, apparently, a long history of pretending you're fine and that nothing bad is happening," Harry finishes nonplussed. He blinks, eyeing Louis up and down again. “She sounded like you were on your deathbed.”

“Well, it definitely does not feel like pedicure on a Friday evening.”

Harry doesn't respond to that. He takes two steps forward, the door sliding closed behind him, and hugs himself, burying his hands in the black hoodie, the jacket slung on his elbow. He looks incredibly small, but not vulnerable. It’s the duality he always carries within himself that doesn't allow his frame to look like he’s going to take a beating, no matter the situation.

Louis swallows, looking away. God, he has to do that again, huh?

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks steadily now, clearly more settled with what's in front of him.

“Like a truck ran me over and sat on me when it was done trying to break my ribs with its wheels.” Louis catches the vicious note in his voice and he makes to cough and correct himself, but decides against it. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's better to not hide how screwed up he is. “With no goodbye kiss.”

He's getting a headache already, shit. It needs to be done, though. Even if he's going to be repeating himself.

“Can I ask you something?” He looks at Harry, his head falling back against the pillow. His eyelids are still heavy and it's an uneven fight, he needs to be awake for a minute more and his body doesn't seem to be down for it. Harry nods. “That friend of yours. What was his name, Peter? Peter Parker. How is he?”

Harry blows out a sigh, his jaws setting. The stillness of his body has Louis guessing whether he's getting angry or completely fed up with Louis' bullshit. Personally, Louis would be both.

“What does he have to do with anything?” There's a tension evident in Harry's voice now, the crystal clear annoyance crawling its way into it. He moves closer to the chair by the bed, twisting it so he can sit backwards on it and crosses his arms resting them on top of the backrest after throwing the jacket onto the foot of the bed.

It takes Louis several seconds to tear his eyes away from the boy now sitting close enough that he's starting to have troubles breathing. Then he snorts, his ribs aching in protest.

“Harry, Harry, Harry... He’s… He’s good. Nice, kind. Single.”

Harry's brow knits together in a frown.

“And what about it?”

And what about it? He still doesn't understand, poor baby deer.

“Don't lose the good that you could have with him for me. It's not worth it.”

Harry's face darkens. “With—What are you—”

“You have to walk away now, Hazza. Come on, you gotta walk away.”

Louis makes to push himself higher up, to sit properly, but his everything votes against this idea. Not able to gesture properly, he tries to communicate how he feels through his expression alone. 

He blinks when his sight goes blurry.

Harry lets out a short breath.

“I don't recall giving you the right to make decisions for me, Louis, I don’t recall ever explicitly saying that I want to be with you. Which doesn't mean that I _don't_ want to be with you, it's just weird how easily you assume shit yet don't act on it.”

Louis almost whines in frustration.

“Thanks for the useless confirmation. Jesus Christ, listen, I know you. You're bright, brave and kind, but you're so fucking stubborn about this particular thing and I can't let you be that way right now, okay?” His fists curl on the sheets pulled over his chest. His knuckles burn at the grip he’s got on  the material. “I cannot let you throw your safety away for me, I won't risk you, I refuse.”

Harry's eyes flicker with worry for a minute as Louis is talking before it becomes clear that he’s getting pissed off. He hasn't come here to argue, that's for sure, but now argue is what’s inevitable he’s not one to shrink from the challenge.

“Then why the hell are you telling me to go? It's contradictory,” he counters. “You think it's okay to not tell me you get your ass kicked in your free time, and it's absolutely _fine_ to leave me there in the middle of a cemetery while you're off to almost get killed by some batshit crazy Shrek wannabe? That’s alright with you? It’s totally fine for you to make me worry, to lose my shit? It's okay to lead me on and then run away the moment things might get serious? That okay with you? Because we appear to have very different understandings of what the definitions of okay and safe mean and yours is seriously fucked up.”

Louis shifts under the sheets. He feels like crawling out of his skin and never coming back. Live a good life as a muscle-and-bones exposition in the nearby kindergarten.

“I just need you to stay alive,” he says, squinting as a wave of unease and pain floods into his head. Just a minute more, come on. “I... need you safe, happy. What I don't need is you neck deep in my clusterfuck of a life, I really, really don't.”

“I've had this conversation already, we've had it—”

“And yet you're still standing here.”

“I can to lie down if that'll make your brain work. Don't make decisions for me.”

“It's _my_ decision!” he snaps, fingers digging into the sheets. He hisses at the sudden ache the movement brings.

Harry doesn't skip a beat. “Half of it. I'm involved. We can figure it out.”

“No, no, no, Harry, dammit,” Louis shakes his head, pausing to grunt at the pain in his back, “there's no riding-into-the-sunset ending for me, it ends with... Jesus on a stick, look, it ends with me _dying_ one day from continual poor choices caused by the guilt eating my guts from the inside, it ends with me _dead_ in some random fucking alley or impaled on a broken stop sign next to Times Square, maybe in plain sight for everyone to see. There's no... no happy ending, not for me, and I want one for you, okay? Is that easy enough to digest?”

“There could be one if you allowed it and you know it.”

Louis breathes out an exasperated sigh. “You're not listening to me.”

Harry’s nostrils flare. “I don't happen to speak bullshit.”

“Oh, mother—”

“Louis—”

“I don't _want_ that!” He burst out and immediately whines. He gives up trying to hold himself up and slides back down onto the pillow. “Has that thought entered your skull? That maybe I don't _want_ you? Maybe I don't want a relationship, friends, all that shit?”

“My IQ is above that joke of an excuse. Try again.”

There's hardness drawn into Harry's features that Louis’ never seen before and, frankly, it's becoming scary in a way Louis can't quite put a finger on.

He swallows, looks up, to the side, and back at Harry.

“I don't want it. I don't want _you,_ anything. Here. Anywhere at all. Walk away, just... walk away. Please, Hazza.”

Harry slides a hand down his face, his leg starting to bounce. “Mother of hell, you're so full of your DIY scare-the-guy-away crap that it's unbelievable.”

Louis fights the sob tugging on his throat with a deep breath.

“Wanna know a thing? Want me to share a secret with you? Look outside, see that city?” He waves in the general direction of the windows, the other hand falling across his eyes. “That city needs me. That city is where I need to be, what _I_ need. There are people doing bad things and they're _my_ problem, and it means that I'm gonna go there, every day, Harry, _every_ day, and throw a fight if necessary. Look at me. Really look at me.” He swallows the tears crawling up his throat, glances at Harry, looks away when Harry’s stern gaze lands on him. “This is me. Bloody and broken. And I'm gonna go out as much as possible to put my ass in danger again. One of these days I might not be back. Some of these days I might be back with my face burnt, both ankles sprained, and broken fingers. That's what I do. Wanna be a part of that circus? Because lord knows I won't let you stop me from being me.”

“I would never hold you back.”

“You don't understand how it works.”

Harry trains his gaze on the ceiling. “For the love of God.”

“You being here, I'm grateful.” Louis pauses. He slides a hand down his face, throws his arm on his chest. His heart appears to be losing its rhythm, and so does his breathing. He still doesn't focus his eyes on Harry. “Means a lot. But you have to go now, Harry. In a bit I'm gonna walk out of here and go back home and continue with my life, and I won't do it with you. I _can't_ do it with you.”

“Do you have a 'shut up’ switch?”

“Just walk away.”

“You can't scare me off.”

“I'm not scaring you off, I'm telling you I don't _want_ you here, I'm…” His breath catches in his lungs, heart growing heavier, beating faster and uneven. _Not again, come on_ . His voice shakes when he presses his eyes shut and musters up a couple of words. “I don’t want you here. Or… anywhere else. Get it through your skull. Go… go away. _Please_.”

Before he knows it, there's a nurse by his side, or he thinks it's a nurse. It's a woman for sure, white coat, soft voice, long ponytail.

Harry's still there, blurry, fading. Someone's got a hand on his shoulder.

His voice still gets to the scraps of Louis' conscience.

“If you ever decide to tell the truth, you know where to find me.”

 

When he wakes, the urge to get up is hard to ignore.

Easier said than done. Turns out that moving his body in the way his mind wants to isn’t as simple as it was a couple of days ago. He suppresses making a sound as he rolls over to the edge of the ridiculously large bed where he sits straight, cracks his neck, and sets his jaw as not to scream at the sudden pain that makes itself known across his body. Seems like extra healing doesn’t mean zero pain. Who would have thought?

He gets to his legs nevertheless, supporting himself on the chair, and discovers that instead of scrubs, he's dressed in black boxer briefs.

He takes several aching, limpy, barefoot steps towards the door, getting better with each one, his back straightening and limbs going back online.

Speaking of the door. It’s wooden, dark, and, lo and behold, has no knob.

“How do you… open that thing?” He sighs, leaning against the wall with one hand. He then notices a small black panel with a single cyan square in its center. “Right.”

Louis shrugs and presses his palm against it. A smile creeps onto his lips when the cyan flickers to green and the door slides open, disappearing into the wall.

The smile fades when he sees the expression of sheer horror on the face of the person revealed by the opening door.

“Hey, Tony,” he greets the man, surprised at his own cheerful note. He takes in Tony’s casual clothing, red hoodie, dark jeans, and black socks. “What’s cookin’, old lookin’?”

Tony looks him over carefully. “What do you think you’re doing, kid?”

Louis follows his gaze, aware of his legs shaking slightly from the walk to this point.

“Dancing. Just taking a quick break now, pirouettes wear a guy out.”

“Get back to your bed,” Tony orders gently.

“No can do.” Louis shakes his head. “I want coffee.”

“I can bring it to you.”

“I can walk,” he argues, letting go of the wall and standing straight to prove his point.

He sways.

Tony rolls his eyes. “I know you can walk.”

“Then let me walk. I want coffee. I don’t wanna rot in bed.”

The man eyes him again, worry crossing his face as he chews on his bottom lip, clearly conflicted.

“What are the odds that I can convince you go back to bed?”

“Close to nonexistent,” Louis admits.

“How you are so similar to me is beyond my understanding.”

Louis chuckles at that and joins Tony as the man beckons at him with a hand, still limping thanks to the brace on his ankle. They cross a long hall full of uniform doors, and make it to a huge multi-purpose room.

“Where are we?” he asks, following the man as he walks around what seems to be the ‘chill out’ area of the space.

It’s a living room and a playroom disposed nicely on two levels with a thin wall of dark glass dividing them. It’s got an enormous, rounded TV, and an even more enormous couch, loosely set armchairs, a couple of footstools, two bookcases filled with books, two billiard tables, what turns out to be a pinball machine, and a set of dart boards across the glass wall.

The kitchenette is tucked into the corner, with a long, dark table lined up with fitting chairs.

It’s a juxtaposition of cosy, modern, and high-tech at the same time, and Louis absolutely loves every inch of it.

“This is insane,” he comments in awe as they walk through the space. 

“You like it?” Tony throws the question over his shoulder and approaches the open plan kitchen containing two fridges, two dishwashers, a large sink, and open shelving.

And two coffee machines. Priority. Louis respects it.

Louis decides to settle himself on a chair near the table, happy to discover that it's just as comfy as it looks. He rests his elbow on the tabletop and looks at Tony.

“Of course I like it. It’s crazy. How big is that TV?”

“Something like two hundred inches? Can’t remember, Barton's idea.” Tony shrugs, grabbing two similar white cups from a shelf over the coffee machine. “Welcome to the Avengers Headquarters, by the way.”

Louis would choke on something if he was drinking, and thank god he isn’t because his ribs wouldn’t be so happy about that. Instead, he stares blankly for what feels like hours.

“Are they… Are they here?” His voice segues into a whisper as if he’s afraid of being slaughtered for simply breathing the air in the Avengers HQ. 

Tony laughs fondly at his reaction.

“Bucky’s having a nap in his room, Steve’s out with Nat, Bruce’s out of country. Last I saw Vision he was going to find Wanda. Rhodes’ at work. Clint… No idea where Clint is. But then again, nobody ever knows where Clint is. We’re alone for now, kid, so you can relax.”

“Sounds incredibly convenient.”

Louis’ stomach knots nevertheless at the thought of actual Avengers living in the very place he’s in.

Wait.

“Why am I in the Avengers HQ?” he asks, tilting his head as he watches Tony prepare their drinks.

Tony shifts like he’s uncomfortable, not looking up as he gives his answer.

“You were hurt,” he says, a weird tone lacing his words. “Badly. Stark Tower is cool and all, but this is the place that I trust the most. It’s mine. Ours. Has a medical team. It’s just a couple of minutes away from my house, too. I figured that you wouldn’t want to be at my house, and Park Ave is still trying to get back to normalcy after a green maniac terrorized it and blew up Hillstone and several stores nearby. I thought you wouldn’t like to look out of the window and see the streets recover from that. Hence the choice to bring you here.”

Louis puffs his cheeks and breathes out.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” he admits.

Tony visibly relaxes at his words.

“Took the basic steps.”

Quiet takes over until Tony approaches the table with two coffees and beckons towards the couch with a tilt of his head. Louis takes one of the cups from the man and follows him to the chill area. Oddly in sync, they plop down on the heavenly comfy couch.

“Jeez, it’s like sitting on a cloud,” Louis almost purrs, shifting a bit to be able to put his legs on one of the footstools. “Good couch. Gold star. Ten out of—Ouch.” He hisses at the sting of pain in his ribs when his abdominals flex as he lifts his legs. “ _Ohmyfuckin_ —Ten.”

Tony chuckles at his words and mirrors his position, placing the cup on his stomach.

“I’m happy you like it,” he says, his tone matching his words.

Several minutes of silence are only broken by the sips of coffee they take, Louis’ brain occupied with reinstalling itself and recalling the folders containing with the memories of Saturday night. Tony’s first to speak up again, words forming a question, but tone trailing off and unsure before he finishes the thought.

“That guy… If you’re afraid he's actually right for you, if you're afraid to take a chance because it’s too big a chance…”

Louis shakes his head, catching the meaning and the person the words are about.

“I just feel like if it doesn't work with him, then maybe there's no one out there. That’s it. I don’t want anyone near me as well, I’m too much of a threat. Let’s not talk about him, please, I want one damn hour without him on my mind.”

Tony nods and takes another sip of his drink. Louis moves his legs a little, cracks his neck, schooling his face, feeling out the residual aches from the hits he took and that godforsaken explosion that blew a couple of feet from his face. The pain is almost completely gone, only the ankle reminding him of a more severe concussion, and his sternum where Osborn smashed him with his glider.

“What happened to Osborn?” he asks, glancing at Tony. “Did he… Did he die?”

Tony hugs his cup to his chest and looks at him reassuringly.

“Your plan worked. Mostly.” He shrugs and sets his gaze back forward. “Had to catch him first because he started convulsing and falling after I gave him the serum. Shot him with it, I mean. Then dropped him onto the roof where he passed out and started losing the green, blew up that flying bat. Then got back to you, and flew you here so the medical team could take care of you. After that was finished I got back to the mad-head and took him to the Vault. They said the OZ has mostly worn off. And then I came back here. Made sure the medics were taking good care of you, brought you some clothes. They’re mine, brand new, had to tear off the tags on my way to you.”

Louis snorts.

“And there goes my hope for sniffing the clothing for hints of your aftershave at nights.”

Tony elbows him, laughing. “Don’t say that, it’s inappropriate. And frankly disgusting.”

“Sorry. Guess my friends’ idea of Tony Stark the sugar daddy got into my head.”

“Your friends sound interesting.”

Louis smiles at that. “Yeah. They are.”

“Osborn must have switched the dental records to make us think he was out of the picture.” Tony takes another sip and lets out a sigh. “There was this guy… Besides this Harry kid who's scary as hell, by the way, real piece of work. He, uh.” He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand and starts drumming on the cup with his fingers. “While you were in  dreamland, some weirdo miraculously got my number and called me yesterday. Asked about you. As in, you. Louis. Wanted to know if you were fine. Name was Wade Wilson. Ringing any bells?”

Louis rolls his eyes fondly. Wade Wilson. Such an unassuming name, and yet, according to FRIDAY, untraceable. He shifts his head to lock eyes with Tony’s.

“He’s just a mercenary who shot me and talked me through a panic attack.”

“Who? That did what, excuse me?” The man’s brows almost hit his hairline. 

“That time you went bananas because I got shot? That was him. And!” Louis almost shouts when Tony’s confusion turns into something looking very murderous-esque. “And he talked me through a panic attack after that Hillstone explosion. So we’re good. No need to go after him. Promise me you won’t go after him.”

Tony stares at him for an extended period of time before he finally blinks.

“Let me just… You said he was what, a mercenary?”

“Yeah,” Louis confirms.

“And he shot you?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s a mercenary.”

“It appears so.”

“A gun for hire. Kills people for money. A hitman.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you don’t want me to lock him up.”

“Exactly.”

Tony looks up, as if asking God why, and God appears to give him no answer because slumps back into the couch in defeat.

“You’re something else.” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Your aunt called too, by the way.”

Louis’ heart drops to his stomach. “What’d you tell her?”

“Judging by the worry in her voice I could tell you’d screwed something up.” Tony shrugs. “So I told her that you had came to me asking to spend the night, and you were tired as hell, your phone got lost, and that you’d call her as soon as possible. I had to send her a picture of you sleeping, too, praying for my miserable life that I didn’t come across as a Jared Fogle of some sort.”

Louis digests the words. Asking Tony to send her a proof that he’s alive? That’s something she would do.

“Sorry about that,” he says, sighing into his cup.

“She had the right.” Tony shrugs. “If I had to guess, I’d say you disappeared on Saturday evening and didn’t come back home. Anyone in their right mind would be worried sick. Especially considering that in that same period of time both Queens and Manhattan got good show of that  bat-sliding green son of a bitch, not to mention the dent he made with you in my tower and the restaurant he blew to pieces. You should be glad she didn’t go into cardiac arrest. I would have if you were my kid.”

Louis clicks his tongue absently.

“Then you’d guess right. And sorry for the damage to the tower.”

“Sorry for not being there sooner.”

He doesn’t add any more details, and Tony looks like he wants to ask a hundred questions, but settles for giving him a bit of space for now.

They finish their drinks in leisurely silence that Louis takes as an opportunity to not think. Instantly, he realizes that the peace he's been looking for is actually happening. There are still thoughts running through his head, but they're less frantic and he has more control over them. It's a nice change of pace.

Before he can dwell on that too much, he forces himself simply _be_ for a minute or two. There are matters that have to be addressed, there are things that need to be done, but for now he just wants to breathe without worry.

Tony is first to put his empty dish on the table.

“Come on, kiddo, let’s get you sorted out.” He nudges Louis’ leg with his knuckles and gets up from the couch. “Workshop first, there's something I want you to see.”

Louis takes a quick glance at the state of his clothing—the boxer briefs, shirt, and barefeet,—shrugs, and follows suit, placing his cup by Tony’s. They take the steps up that lead out of the chill arena, and approach one of the two elevators in front of them.

“I took the liberty of fixing your suit,” Tony says once the door opens soundlessly and they step inside. He taps the minus one level on the panel on mirror-less the side of the elevator. “Made some upgrades in the design. Of course, you can change it anytime. I don’t want to force anything on you.”

Louis gives him a look. “Mister Stark—”

“Tony.”

“Tony. Sorry. You spend millions dollars on me. I couldn’t possibly be picky about the stuff you’re gifting me for reasons I can’t understand.”

“Which part of I want you to be safe and have supplies accurate to your level of intelligence don’t you understand?”

“The part where I’m just a kid from Queens, absolutely unrelated to you in any way, and an asshole on top of that. The part where I'm a nobody and you try to make it look like I'm the same person in and out of the suit. That part.”

Tony seems to be dying to retort, but chooses to not say a word for now. Louis sighs, slumping against the mirror. He doesn’t even dare to look at his reflection. He’s a total mess, and he really doesn’t want to see the state his hair is in.

As if prompted by Louis’ thoughts, Tony reaches out and wordlessly ruffles Louis’ hair, styling the bangs forward and to the side, and flattens the back. He remains silent, even when Louis gives him a questioning look.

The elevator stops and the door slides open, revealing a workshop that seems otherworldly. If Louis thought the one he was handed over was high tech, this one seems positively alien and a century ahead of everything.

Okay, he’s exaggerating. But he can’t help the gasp at the overwhelming combination of metals, cyan glow and white. The room filled with more advanced tools and chemical equipment than the workshop in the Stark Tower, and it’s certainly bigger.

Tony beckons at him with a hand and they walk amongst holoscreens, tables, work stations, and God knows what else, until they reach the far side of the room where the wall has been fitted with an expanse of cabinets filled with suits and weapons of all kinds. They stop by the one containing what appears to be Louis’ new costume.

It looks kind of like the one he shred to pieces. Kind of. It looks _nothing_ like the previous one.

Louis loves every inch of it. The ostentatious spider splashed across his chest, the aggressive gloves with red fingers, the blood red and deep navy blue stripes across the upper side of arms and around the thighs, the ostentatious blacks. The webs are more visible as well, more defined and a deep inky black.  It’s like a grown-up version of himself. At its core it's still a tight onesie that leaves almost nothing to imagination, but… sophisticated.

There are holograms surrounding the suit that list out the capabilities (the wingsuit sounds cool), materials such as dyneema and graphene which means bulletproof, and the composition of the webbing (with a 'to meddle with by Louis’ note).

He looks aside at Tony to squeal out a thank you, but the man speaks up first, taking a step back to create some space between them.

 “FRIDAY, pull Mister Tomlinson’s folder, will you? Protocol LT1.”

“ _With pleasure_.”

The air between them flickers and a large holoscreen appears out of nowhere. Louis opens his mouth to ask… well, he doesn’t even know what. Anything. But then the contents of the holoscreen start making sense and words get stuck in his throat.

It’s _him_. His name, his family history, his address, numbers, numbers, numbers. Then there’s a rolling list of all the contests he either won or received second place in for the sole purpose of winning a bet with Niall. He can see all the notes that teachers who’ve had the chance to work with him wrote along with his IQ tests results. There are his notes and averages, and photos flickering from one to another, mostly from academic decathlons and classrooms. His entire school career and part of his private life in a single folder spread across one hologram.

“Stalker alert,” Louis jokes, his eyes still set on the moving information. He notices a picture of himself from the first contest he ever participated in. First place, of course. “What’s all this for?”

Tony slides his finger across the list of the contests, making it spin faster, and starts flipping through the teachers’ notes on his right.

“Did you know your IQ is the tenth highest IQ on the planet? Above you there are only me, Bruce, Victor Von Doom, Reed Richards, Hank Pym, and a few more old scientists. And then there’s you. A seventeen-year-old kid.”

“Eighteen.”

“Soon-to-be.”

Louis blinks in surprise at the strangled tone of Tony’s voice.

“I didn't know that.”

The man nods, still toying with the holoscreen.

“When you were nine, you had won more academic competitions than any kid in the US ever had by the age of eighteen. That’s when your case caught my eye.” He pauses, as if trying to gather his thoughts. “By the age of eleven you had surpassed the brains of  students at MIT, and at the age of fourteen you officially became a legend among the teachers of New York. Everyone wanted you at their school.”

“Never got wind of that,” Louis admits sheepishly. Or he just didn’t notice, with his nose always stuck in the books.

“Well, that was a matter that only the teachers talked about,” Tony responds, shrugging. “Of course they didn’t want to burden you with their nagging. And wherever you went, the school was cautious to not let you know there were other, _better_ schools that would offer you everything so you could join them. Kind of sad they didn’t see that heart of gold of yours and that you probably would have stayed where you were no matter the offer.”

Louis can agree with that. He’d have chosen a school closest to his aunt and always in Queens, just where his home is. No amount of money would make him move to another city.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you for almost a decade now,” Tony continues. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, still looking at the data. “I wanted to make sure that a kid like you didn’t go to waste. I planned to snatch you once you’d finished high school and get you a real internship and later, maybe, a good place of work. Admittedly, I’m kind of selfish. But it doesn’t change the fact that Stark Industries could offer you a place to work that would equal your intellect. I could see your bright future. Kinda saw myself in you too. But a better version. Kinder, with a loving family, supported every step of the way. Caring, selfless, sincere. You were everything that I never was your age. Still are. I’ve changed a lot, but I’d give everything to have what you’ve had. My piece of dogshit father gave me everything but love and attention. And you _had_ love and attention, but didn’t have the possibility of doing whatever you wanted with anything you wanted. You’d lived with tremendous loss, yet you still managed to be this crazy smart and kind individual. You had my respect. Still do, always will.”

Louis stares at the man, glued to where he’s standing. He understands the words he's being told, but they aren’t making it to the part of his brain where a response can be formulated.

Tony reaches out again, closes his hand, and the screen flickers and disappears, removing the barrier between them.

Without the cyan hued light, it's easier to notice now how glassy his eyes are, and the dark shadows underneath them even without him looking up. He looks older. Tired.

“Why… Why are you telling me this?” Louis asks finally, crossing his arms against his chest protectively and scanning the man’s face trying to find the hint of a joke.

Tony sighs, rubbing his neck, and looks up, locking his eyes with Louis’.

“Because, see… Spider-Man is cool.” He smiles. “But Louis Tomlinson… That guy is extraordinary.”

Louis wants to say something. He really does. Words get stuck in his throat and tears start to pool in his eyes, and he knows he’s going to cry if he vocalizes even a syllable. He narrows his options down to continuing his staring at Tony. To make the matter worse, the man closes the gap between them and puts his hands on Louis’ shoulders.

“Stalker-ish monologue aside, you listen to me now, Louis.” There’s pride dancing in his eyes and a smile creeping into the corners of his lips. “You're a great kid. There's wonder and kindness in you, and you need to stop thinking that it’s your super alter ego that’s the better part of Louis Tomlinson. Because Louis Tomlinson is pretty fucking awesome. Whatever it is that drives you crazy and makes you put on the suit more often than is healthy, whatever it is that makes you feel like you need to push everyone and every attempt to help you away, I hope you’ll figure it out. I hope you’ll understand that there are people who love you and care about you. And that we are not going anywhere. Everyone needs help. Even a superhero. And you're braver than you think, stronger, smarter. Find your calling, stick to it, and I promise you—when the time comes, you'll see the worth of it. And maybe one day, I'll get a glimpse of that light falling off of you, kid. I hope I will. If you'll have me there.”

Louis doesn’t know if the man says anything further. All he can hear is the sound of his own sobs as he buries his face in the red softness of Tony’s hoodie and drapes his arms around the firm waist.

He might be imagining the man hugging him back and resting his chin on the top of his head. Whether he does or not, he doesn’t care. He just wants to cry.

“It might not feel like it to you, but that lion heart of yours has been trying to hold it together for everyone around you at the expense of yourself. Maybe it's about time you realised that it doesn’t all depend on you.”

That's the first time he's glad his routine has been broken.

  


**April the 18th, Wednesday**

 

Never in Louis’ life has his building looked so scary.

Which is kind of ridiculous given that it’s the first time this year that he’s seen the Parker Towers lit by the full, unclouded sun at midday. Spring has finally appeared, the streets crowded with people clothed in something other than furs and winter boots.

The day is undoubtedly beautiful, one of those that help with depression and getting out of bed and that put uncontrollable smiles on people's faces. It's warm, bright, and everything one could want from an afternoon in April.

None of that lifts Louis’ spirits. None of that manages to melt the growing fear in his chest.

“I have your absences up through today covered,” says Tony, turning the engine off. “If you need anymore recovery days, hit me up and I'll take care of the paperwork.”

“No, no.” Louis shakes his head, clutching onto the brand new backpack on his lap. “I'll go to school tomorrow. I'm fine.”

“I hate how stubborn you are.”

Louis lets out a breathy chuckle, detaching his gaze from the building in front of him and looking at the man.

Tony still looks very domestic, his businessman chic completely gone for today as he hasn't expressed a desire to change from his hoodie into anything else. His hair is tousled, eyes tired, and the only thing he added to his appearance when they were on their way out of the HQ was put on some sport shoes.

Louis is a whole different story—he was given jeans, a loose, white long sleeve, and another pair of those magical kevlar shoes, this time in red. After a quick appointment at the HQs’ medical center, he got back to waiting behind the door, free from ankle brace and the plaster on his forehead. The bandages on his chest remained, changed to fresh ones, just in case the wounds open up (‘I have accelerated healing’ ‘And I have medical degree’). The new suit has been stashed into a simple black Nike backpack and handed to him once he left his temporary room.

So here he is, alive, fresh and clean, with the same dark shades under his eyes and a mop of hair, dressed in clothes that aren’t his, holding in his arms a piece of cloth worth more than he cares to think about.

And scared _shitless_.

“Mister Stark? _Tony_. Tony.” He clears his throat and locks his eyes with the man's curious ones. “How do you do that? How are you not worried about Miss Potts? About the people who can be in danger just because they're connected to you?”

Tony seems to be considering a good answer, but finally gives Louis a warm smile and turns away, leaning back in his seat and looking forward.

“If you expect me to have some magic formula, a well-thought out and valid way to solve that issue, you’re bound to be disappointed. I worry every day.” He drums on the steering wheel. “Every day of my life I spend asking myself if it’s worth it. If I can do more to protect the people I love. If I should maybe build them a farm in the middle of nowhere so nobody who doesn’t like me can reach them. And then I remember that the world is a dangerous place. You just hope for the best.” He straightens his fingers and stares at them for a moment. “Look, unless you know the future, you can't promise anyone you'll keep them safe. It's just not possible to... to know what's gonna happen so you can’t be prepared for it, alright? We’re always going to be in the ‘in danger’ category, but that doesn’t mean we get do avoid any of the other ones.”

He presses his lips together and lets hi eyes drift back to Louis. “Want my advice? Don't waste the only life you have on worries and ‘what if’s. Because before you know it, it’ll be all long gone and you’ll look back and regret every wasted chance you had for a second of happiness. At the end of the day, you can either focus on what can tear you apart or what can hold you together.”

Louis chews on his bottom lip, setting his gaze on the backpack.

He thinks of the past year, shuffles through the cards of his memory full of the moments when he refused to go out, refused to let people care, refused love in all forms.

“But they’re still in danger.”

Tony sighs and leans forward. He points to a random civilian on the sidewalk.

“See that guy?” He asks when Louis’ eyes fall on the stranger.

Louis frowns. “Yeah?”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

“What if I told you there’s a mad scientist in the basement of the Parker Towers and in three seconds a bomb is gonna go off and everything in here would explode to pieces? Do you think it would have any connection to you?”

“No, but…”

“That rain that fell the last time I visited you. Did you see that coming?”

“No, but it…”

“Kid, you can’t just predict everything and prevent bad things from happening,” Tony cuts him off, shifting in his seat so he can face Louis. “In life, people die. If not you, then the guy next to you. The sooner you understand that you can't save everyone the better. Thinking someone’s in danger because they’re connected to you is very toxic. It can ruin you. You can never be sure when someone’s gonna be kidnapped, where or when something’s gonna explode. All you can do is your best. It's difficult, impossible, unfair, and heartbreaking sometimes, yes, but there’s nothing you can do about this. Take it from someone who’s danced this tango for quite a while now—the worst battles you can face are the ones between what you feel and what you know is right, and the ones between what you love and what brings you pain. And when it comes to choosing between a night out with your friends and a patrol, sometimes you’re allowed to do what makes you happy. Not what your three sleepless nights in a row tell you, not what your wonky sense of responsibility makes you do, but what makes you happy. You deserve it. Sometimes it's all you need. There will always be a price, but there's a price to everything. Don’t let it stop you. That mask is supposed to hide your face, kid, not your feelings, not your life, and not your right to live that life to its fullest.”

Before Louis can overthink it all like he always does, he finds that his face is once again buried in yet another hoodie of Tony Stark’s, breathing in the now familiar scent with heavy breaths and shaky inhales.

“There, there, Underoos, that’s disgusting,” Tony laughs, but his arms are quick to embrace Louis in a hug. “Too many feelings for today. You’ll have me sporting a heart of carbon dioxide and a bitch face for three months as a rebound now.”

Louis chuckles, shaking his head, and finally withdraws. He must have used all of his tears up earlier because his sudden outburst hasn’t ended in a cry now. He should freaking hope so, one can only sport red-rimmed eyes and white face for so long.

“Thank you, Mister Stark,” he says, reaching for the backpack that got knocked in between his feet.

Tony makes a show of hitting his head on the steering wheel and whines dramatically.

“No, Tony, killing a kid is illegal and also against proper morals. You can’t do that. Pepper said she’s making spaghetti on Friday, we can’t get locked up now,” he wails.

“There goes the stupid,” Louis jokes, patting the man’s shoulder.

“Do you hear that, FRIDAY? Look at him.” Tony rests his head on the steering wheel and turns to look at Louis. “Can’t believe this kid got his ass handed to him less than a handful days ago. Getting cocky there.”

Louis opens his mouth to argue, but then he realizes that the man is indeed right. He didn’t win that fight. If it was even a fight to start with. Whatever it was, he was beaten and bled, and the only reason why he’s sitting in a shiny Audi R8 is because Tony got there on time. To give credit where it's due he must admit that the antidote idea was his. It calls for validation.

“Hey.” Tony pokes his leg with a finger and gives him a smile with a softness around the edges that Louis starting to like. “I’m glad you’re getting cocky. It’s good to see you like this.”

“Sap,” is all that Louis replies with before he grins and makes to get out of the car.

He feels a ghost of a playful smack on the head and he shrieks, forgetting himself for a moment.

He's suddenly on a sidewalk and people are giving him looks, frowning at Tony's car. If he cared he maybe would react, but he's too high on new opportunities for now to give a damn.

He leans over the open door and locks his eyes with Tony's as the man leans a bit to look at him.

“Thanks for everything, old man.”

“See, now you're being unnecessarily mean.”

Louis gives him an apologetic look.

“I forgot your name, sorry. Who are you again?”

Tony doesn't answer to that, his lips curling up into a smug smile. He looks pleased with the banter, like he's enjoying being roasted by a kid. And then his demeanor shifts a little, showing his serious side in all that amusement. He trains his eyes on Louis.

Before he even opens his mouth, Louis’ first to jump in with a couple of rushed, blurred out lines 

“You know as tired as I am, as much as I hate being me sometimes, I'm really grateful for what I have. Because I believe that one person can make some difference, and it's nice to be that one person, you know?”

Tony is silent for a moment, eyes never leaving the boy. “I know you're getting bored with the serious talks, even though they've only just begun, but, kid... You know that what you did to Osborn… It’s your shot, too. It can be your turn. This is a road that… there’s no turning back from. There’s no paths that you can turn off on that will lead you back to the beginning so that you can go a different way.”

“You got a discount on fortune cookies?” Louis’ brain decides it’s a joke time.

“This is your last turning point. This is the last moment where you can still stop and run the other way. To the beginning. You can be normal. You can make a different call.”

Louis drops his gaze on the sidewalk and then drags it back up on the people around him. He looks at the woman with a dog, one that he’s seen so many times. She lives in the neighborhood, he’s helped her with groceries on occasion. Then he looks at a couple of kids talking lively about the first Incredibles movie and arguing who’s better—Violet or Dash. Then there’s an older man in his thirties, then another woman, another kid, and a cat skids across the sidewalk.

“One Burke guy said that nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could do only a little.“ He sighs and meets Tony’s eyes again. “If I could turn back time, I would make the same call, Tony. The _exact_ same one. Because it’s right.”

Understanding and pride beam from Tony’s face, and Louis wants to leap forward and crush the man in a hug again. Instead, he closes the door and takes a step back, saluting off. He hears a window slide down the moment he turns away.

“There's a new phone in the backpack, no refunds, bye!”

Before he gets to look over his shoulder, the wheels screech on the concrete and the car’s driving away. He sighs, hugging the backpack to his chest, and looks at the main door of the building.

 _Come on_ , _Louis_.

 

So… Whatever it was that held him up and made him able to banter in the Audi, it's been evaporating more with every second he's spent in the elevator up to level nineteen.

Every ounce of confidence and cockiness has flown out of his body, leaving him with only a wheelbarrow of guilt and a dab of fear on top of it. He's aware that it's stupid to be scared of Jay—there's no reason to be scared of her. He figures it's more about the fear of ending up as a disappointment to her that's fueling that stinging thing in his chest. He let his Aunt down. He's scared of having to face his own demons, of the consequences of his own actions.

Good news is, he's running out of confidence to run out of.

Things either pass or change, and when they pass they keep on being shit because things don't get better on their own. You have to make them better in order to see them change.

With a shaky sigh, he steps out of the elevator, casting one glance to the right. It's a school day, obviously Lottie's not here.

He swings his backpack over his shoulders, only now realizing he's been clutching it tight to his chest to this point and crosses the hall.

The door is closed. Of course it's closed. It's New York, Queens, and a woman is alone in that apartment—of course it's closed. And his backpack was…

If he's distracting himself and prolonging the inevitable encounter with his aunt, nobody can prove it to him. He slides the backpack off his shoulder and begins to look for that phone.

What he finds are his keys with the NYPD fob, his wallet, the bottle of Seven Up and everything else he had in that bag he’d webbed in a random alley. And his phone. One that looks exactly like his old iPhone that he bought second hand online, except it’s new and probably hides more options than the original version. Louis wouldn’t be surprised if it could shoot lasers. He really hopes it doesn't.

“Okay,” he murmurs at the sight, snatches his keys, and zips up the bag.

He opens the door quietly, getting a bit worried, amongst everything else currently making him nervous, at the fact that Jay didn’t come up to the door when the knob was being turned.

He understands why quickly enough his eyes falling to the couch where his aunt is dozing with a remote in her hand. He closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, and toes his shoes off.

He makes to walk up to his aunt, but a different plan pops up in his head.

On his tiptoes—which is absolutely unnecessary—he makes his way to his room. He’s relieved to find it completely untouched. No matter what, Jay still isn’t one to disturb his privacy when he’s not home. A smile touches the corner of his lips.

He drops the backpack onto the bed and changes the new shirt to an old one with Midtown High logo. Then he opens his window because damn if it’s not stuffy in there, puts all the books back into their places, straightens the sheets on the bunk beds, and gathers up the clothes laying on the chair. It takes him two minutes, but the room already looks more organized. Once he’s happy with the result, he takes the laundry to the bathroom where he stashes it into the laundry basket.

And then he sees himself in the mirror. Admittedly, he doesn't look so bad. There's no sign of the Saturday fiasco on his face, either bruises or cuts.

There's more color to his face than the last time he saw his reflection as well, which feels like it was ten years ago, but the dark shadows under his eyes have remained. A day and a half of sleep doesn't miraculously fix bags under the eyes.

“Of course it doesn't, lame brain,” he murmurs, pulling the knob of the drawer underneath the sink. “Use your IQ for once.”

There goes his portion of self-esteem boost.

Louis picks up an old but still kicking pair of scissors, a comb, two clippers, and a black cloth folded neatly into a bag.

He closes the drawer with his knee, gathering the supplies into one hand, and walks out of the bathroom. He crosses the hall and approaches the couch with steady steps where he gets onto to his knees and places his hand on Jay's shoulder.

“Aunt Jay?” He shakes her slightly, swallowing the still growing fear in his throat.

It takes a couple of seconds but Jay's eyes finally blink open and immediately fall on Louis.

“Cut my hair, please?” He asks in an almost whisper.

Jay flashes him a hesitant but warm smile, a million of questions flickering the way she takes Louis in, and nods.

 

**April the 19th, Thursday**

 

**_MASKED MENACE TERRORIZES MANHATTAN_ **

_By **DAN WOOTTON** _

_**MANHATTAN** \- On the night of the 15th, Saturday, Queens and Manhattan got through terror caused by the known by the now infamous masked menace, Spider-Man, and a man on a high-tech glider, who I can exclusively reveal was none other than Norman Osborn, formerly presumed dead. New York's Park Avenue was closed after having been left blood-streaked by the fight between Spider-Man and the Green Goblin. _

_On Saturday night, April 15th, Queens reported a man on a flying glider wandering through the streets. The Avengers have stated that the Green Goblin, after being taken down and turned back into his human form, is no one else but Norman Osborn._

_No damage during the fight was done before the well-known by now wall-crawling vigilante wreaked havoc. According to witnesses, the wall-crawler led the Green Goblin around Forest Hills, Rego Park, North Coron, Jackson Heights, Woodside, Astoria, ending in Midtown Manhattan. The actions were victim-less and seemed to not bring any damage until Park Avenue in Midtown Manhattan._

_The violent clashing took place on the corner of 27th and Park Avenue, around ten in the evening. One building was demolished due to an explosion of chemicals which appear to match the ones from the Oscorp explosion from February 19th and the Osborn mansion from March 16th. Hillstone restaurant and its adjoining businesses are being supported by the Stark Foundation and the Department of Damage Control._

_Five civilians were harmed in the explosion, all of them are hospitalized. Nobody was lethally injured..._

 

“This vigilante swings around every day and saves people's lives, and that's how they repay him,” Jay says, stepping into the kitchen. She eyes the countertop and leans against the fridge.

“Tell me when life starts being fair, I'll set up a visit to the psychiatrist's so they can prescribe us anti-lunacy pills.” Louis sighs, grabbing the pan and flipping the pancake on the other side. He pulls out a plate from a drawer and places it on the copy of the Daily Bugle. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, early bird.”

“How’d you sleep?”

Normally, he would know. Between his sleepless nights and the times that he would come back from patrol early enough to hear his aunt breathe steadily in the another room but too late to get sleep on his own—he tended to have a firm grasp on her sleep patterns.

Since he slept for approximately fifteen hours the previous night with only a single pee break waking him around midnight, this time he wouldn’t even know if his aunt had been up with a nightmare.

“Knowing that you're home and safe? At peace.”

Louis gives her an apologetic look and slides the pancake on the plate.

“I'm sorry you had to worry about me.” He grabs the bowl with the pancake batter. “I never meant to—”

“Tiny raincheck on that conversation, please, can we eat first? It’s been rough couple of days. Haven’t eaten properly since Saturday.”

He nods.

He finishes making breakfast while Jay takes care of their coffees. He doesn't ask if she’s taken days off, he doesn't have to. They fall into what Louis thought was long forgotten rhythm, but it turns out that his mind has been playing more than one trick on him and they don't need to use words to know what the other's next move is going to be.

When they're comfortable on the couch, Jay turns on the TV, but instead of the news channel, she flicks onto Nickelodeon.

Louis smiles at that, even though they don’t know the show that’s playing.

They eat in what seems to be a comfortable silence that doesn't even try to hide the questions hanging in the air, ones that have been there since he got back home yesterday.

Louis is first to speak, hugging the half empty cup of coffee to his chest and bringing his knees up to hold it in place.

“I was in a bad spot,” he starts, fiddling his the cup. Jay doesn't interfere, her eyes still trained on the screen as she sips her drink. “I wanted to do too much. Handle school, the internship, my own ego, and friends on top of that. Didn't notice when all that started, me losing control, and before I knew it, the shit hit the fan.”

“Language,” Jay scolds him, but there's no actual scolding in her voice. Just a soft reminder.

“Sorry.” He inhales sharply and clears his throat. “My point is, I was on a rough patch. I put myself there. And Saturday… On Saturday I reached the end of my rope. I was at the very end of it. Didn’t know what to do anymore. It hit me then that I lost myself somewhere along the way of trying to do the right thing, lost my sense of—of responsibility, of kindness, of everything I ever believed in. I was an asshole. I became something I always hated. And I regret it. I understand it now.”

Jay doesn't say a word to that, only puts away her cup and plate, shifting on the couch, and putting all of her focus on Louis.

He hugs the cup closer, careful not to crush it.

“I wish I didn’t have to go through hell to be where I am now, but I guess some lessons in life just have to be given. I had mine. I know the mistakes I made. I know what led me to where I was stumbling for a couple of months. And I hope to never make those mistakes again. I don’t want to worry you anymore. I don’t want to lose my friends. I don’t want sleepless nights.”

He exhales, tapping on his cup, and closes his eyes. Just those three words. It’s ridiculous how difficult they are to speak aloud.

He looks at his aunt, smiling softly, making it clear that he means it.

“I am tired. I’m really tired, Aunt Jay.”

She lets out a long, deep exhale, moves closer to Louis, and curls her fingers around his wrist. Several seconds pass before she speaks with a pinch of hesitation and a lot of careful expression of affection.

“I never said anything because… Because I believe that some fights we need to fight alone,” she says, seeking for his eyes, but Louis’ gaze is fixed anywhere but towards her. “I’ve always been there in case you needed help and you knew it. I know that you did. And I could barely stand looking at you, getting more and more lifeless, more absent, and less like you. But I knew you are strong. That you could win. One day. I let you go on Saturday because I understood you needed space, that that day came and the final battle of yours had to be dealt with, but you had to deal with it on your own. I knew you would. I know _you_. You’re my kid, Louis. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. The most important thing is that you won. Like I knew you would. I’m proud of you. When you grow up, you’ll be the best of all of us. You already are.”

Her grip tightens a little, reassuring. She ruffles his now way shorter, and slightly damp hair.

He presses his eyes shut, inhaling sharply. All cards on the table. She deserves to know.

“There’s one more thing,” he mumbles, training his eyes on the clock above the TV. “I have to—have to tell you. Something. I, uh. Jay, it's…” He swallows. “It's my fault that… that Dan, he... That he’s gone.”

She rubs a line over the back of his hand, scoffing.

“What do you mean yours? You didn't pull the trigger, angel.”

Louis shakes his head almost violently, wanting to tell her how wrong she is.

“Don't—Don't call me that, I don't deserve to be called that.” He clears his throat, feeling tears fighting their way up. “The guy who killed Dan, he—He—I, uh... saw him. The night before. I passed the shop he stole the cash from. He ran towards me, and the shop owner stormed out of the shop, called after the guy." He pauses, inhaling shakily. “He was right there. I saw his face. He looked me in the eye, and screamed at me to move away. And that night—That night, I was so mad. So angry. Dan pissed me off, then someone else pissed me off, and so on, bad stuff just sort of couldn’t stop happening, and I was a mental wreck, so, I—I just... I did.”

He reaches up, running his hand over his eyes, forehead, and pulling on his hair.

“I moved. Moved away. He ran past me, his bag hitting me on the shoulder. The shop owner got to me, took a grip of my arms and yelled. Asked—Asked why I didn't stop that thief, and I, uh... I shrugged, and said..." He hides his face between his fingers, choking on a sob. “I could've stopped him, Jay, I would've—I could've stopped him. It's my fault, I’m so sorry, Jay, I’m so sorry."

He gives into the cry, sobbing into his fist, fighting for breath.

All of that guilt inside him has found a way out and he doesn't know if it's a good thing. He'd be better off without it seeing the light of day. Or would he? It's probably about time he admitted to himself he never was okay with bottling all that up.

He doesn't know how long he's been crying, but when he lifts his head up, sniffing and coughing, Jay's holding a napkin out to him.

He takes it, blows his nose, wipes his eyes into the sleeve of his sweater, and looks at his aunt, looking for disgust and hatred. He finds neither.

“A man killed our Dan, Louis and it wasn’t you,” she says softly, handing him another napkin and watching him clear his nose. “ _He_ pulled the trigger.”

He sniffs. "I could have stopped him."

”If you stopped him, maybe you'd have been dead.”

”Maybe that's my point exactly,” he mutters incoherently.

“Louis—”

“You don't understand, I was right there, I was just _right there_ —”

Jay cuts him off by taking his cup out of his hand, placing it on the coffee table, and bringing him closer, pressing to her chest. She starts running her palms over his back up and down, pulling him towards the safe space by her heart.

"Sweetheart, listen to me now,” she says in half whisper. “Zip your mouth and listen. I've been thinking about it ever since it happened. There hasn't been a day when I wouldn't recall... the moment the police knocked on my door. And I used to blame myself like you do now for what happened to Dan. I still do. Sometimes. I was the one who’d wanted to live here. That day I kept telling him he didn't have to go to the store, that it was going to rain.  But you know your uncle, he's just as stubborn as every Tomlinson. Him going out into the streets was his decision. Not yours, not mine. His only. Wrong place, wrong time. That's what happened. Neither me allowing him to go out nor you letting a criminal go had to do anything with his death. It was his choice to go out. And it was that criminal's choice to pull the trigger."

"Jay—”

"I don't expect you to never feel guilty,” she continues, reaching up to cradle her fingers through his hair. “As I said, I feel guilty, too. But I've been getting over it. And getting over something is not the same as leaving it behind. I don't want you to forget. I want you to start reducing the pain and guilt you feel to a degree that doesn't wreck you, that you can tolerate and live with, step by step, always forward. That doesn't hold you back.”

She pauses to take a deeper breath, resting her hand at the top of Louis’ head as he nuzzles his damp face into her hair.

“And I know it seems impossible right now because... Because it's been with you for such a long time. It feels like it's all you've got. But feelings are great because they're universal but you don't wanna hear about how someone felt when they went through what you went through. Don't want pretty words. You don't care about pretty words, I know, you've been stepping on hard ground for as long as I can remember. Your head might have been in clouds but your feet have always been stuck to the floor. You know that pretty words aren't what it takes to get better.” She allows a period of silence to pass before she inhales shakily. “But he's gone, Louis. Never coming back. He's not here and will never be here again. And you have to start understanding… There's no what if. There's no what you could or could not have done. You can't change the past. You can't _live_ in the past. You can't live in what's gone. You can only remember it. Nothing can take you back to that day. Nothing will be the same as it was, nothing is. And that's both the tragedy and beauty of it.”

Louis sniffles again and shuffles even closer into the embrace.

“It is what it is,” he whispers into her neck.

Jay blows a short, warm breath into his hair, nodding.

“It's not easy—wanting what you want so much that you'd give everything else to get it. But time passes, days go on, whether you want them to or not. Ease the pain inside you, Louis. There's so much world left to see for you. I want you to see it. I know you want to see it as well. Allow yourself. Let yourself do what you want to do. I'll be there by your side if you'll have me, supporting you and leading you back if you get lost. You've suffered enough, baby. You've been in enough pain. Ease it. Enjoy your life. You deserve some sweet happiness."

Louis is quiet for a while, listening to Jay’s steady heartbeat, calming himself down by focusing on her even breaths. His anchor. One that he hasn’t cut off.

Finally, he clears his throat and sighs.

"I don't think I know how to do that.”

Jay untangles him from the hug to cradle his face in one hand. She brushes her thumb over his tear-stained cheek and smiles.

"Day by day. You do that day by day."

  


Louis was a fool to think that Parker Towers looked scary. That might be because yesterday him didn't hold knowledge of how terrifying a door can be. One can learn enough in four minutes and fifteen seconds. He hasn’t been counting. At least not out loud.

“You gotta knock on that fucking’ door or you’ll be standin’ here talkin’ to yourself the whole godforsaken day.”

Louis blinks at the person he’s seen in his life maybe three times. The old man passes him scoffing at Louis’ dumbfounded expression. Louis lets out a long exhale, dipping his head back on the wall and hitting it a couple of times.

He focuses on what's behind the door—soft sizzle of eggs in a pan, rattling forks, boiling water, slippers shuffling on the floor. A smile makes it’s slow way into the corners of Louis’ mouth at the sounds of normality. A casual life. An ordinary morning.

It's rude to interrupt but either now or never. He takes the few steps dividing him from the door and reaches up.

He almost doesn't hear himself knocking, his senses trained on the frantic movements of the breakfast maker in the apartment. Then said movements stop for a second and footsteps begin to sound, getting closer and closer.

The knob twitches and the second when Louis actually looks up he's met with a kind but carefully shut off gaze.

And then his eyes drop down in an instant, instinctively, led by nature’s choice of humane desires.

He can't help but stare, breath caught up in his throat. A variety of scars are scattered across Harry's chest and shoulders. Knife wounds, one cut that must have been stitched up years ago, burn scars, maybe even one after a belt. A picture of someone who didn't have it easy as a kid. Someone who's gone through their share of pain and still manages to put a smile on their own and other people's faces every day.

He swallows, darting his eyes back up, mouth agape and heart sunk low into his stomach. He tilts his head, pushes his cheek out with a tongue, and quirks a brow, trying to come across as more confident than he feels. He opens his mouth, looking for a voice inside him, but Harry speaks first.

"How do you feel about rooftops?"

  


Louis never minded giving up his free time and nights for the good of people. He never minded sacrificing for the greater good. As much as swinging around does cut into his personal life, puts a burden on his relationships, and sometimes leaves him with a plethora of bruises, he enjoys putting on the suit. He wouldn’t do what he does if he didn’t. Despite the fact that what always fueled him and made him sneak into dark, smelly alleys has been tremendous guilt and the need to redeem himself, he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it at least a little bit.

The responsibility to make sure that the criminals are off the streets, that the blind can get across the street, that lost kids find their way back to their parents, that the elders get back home safe with their groceries—none of this beats the swoop in his stomach when he drops ten stories down and then swings back up with a pounding heart and blood rushing with adrenaline. None of it can compare with the sight of the city from twenty stories up, small figures in a hurry, and cars passing the streets in a chaotic order.

This time his heartbeat is steady, save for the small skips every time a thought of the person sitting by his side being in danger of leaning out too much and falling off the ledge. He listens to the wind whooshing in his ears, blowing his hair that he’s given up to even fix at this point. It’s shorter now, so at least it doesn’t fall into his eyes.

It’s strangely peaceful. In spite of everything, both Saturday and all the weeks prior, all that he’s cried over today and yesterday, and all the days before. In spite of the future that might not wind up as pleasant and fortunate as he’d like it to.

It’s seven in the morning and people are in a hurry to work. It’s peaceful because it’s routine again.

"Liberosis,” Harry says, his voice washed out of emotions but steady.

Louis turns his head to the right to look at him, taking in  the dark, worn out beanie and hunched up shoulders, appreciating the 'love will tear us apart’ hoodie. Noticing the hair swaying in the warmth of a spring morning.

Harry's got no business to look so soft, strong, and small at the same time.

"I'm sorry?"

Harry exhales, looking at his arms crossed on the ledge and back up, squinting.

"John Koenig, _Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows._ Liberosis.” He reaches up with his fingers to one of the strings of his hood and starts fiddling with it. “A longing for liberty, an ache to let things go. The, uh... _desire_ to care less about things, to loosen the grip you have on life, to stop looking over your shoulder every few steps. To hold your life loosely and playfully. Always in play.”

Louis only nods to that, at a loss for words and a proper reply. He swallows, shifting his eyes back down, following random civilians as they cross the street.

"I learned the hard way that caring means bleeding,” Harry continues. “You care too much, you get hurt. I once told you that when you’re in a shit situation you can either laugh or cry and that crying brings pain. That’s because crying means caring. When laughing, you can shrug that situation off. All of this never occurred me, you know, until the day my father put out his cigarette on my shoulder.”

Louis swallows, fighting not to look aside. He knows that pity is crossing his face now, and he’s not an asshole enough to expose that to Harry. Even if he’s sure that Harry knows exactly what expression he’s wearing.

“You got nothing to say to that? No flippant remark? Life's really a box of chocolates.”

“I don't know the right words. And you don't want my sorry's.” Louis laces his fingers together, shifting his weight onto the other leg, swinging his hips mindlessly. “Besides, I thought I would have to do the talking.”

“You haven’t said a word for the entirety of the seven minutes we’ve been here.” Harry shrugs. “You have questions you can't ask out loud, so I've decided to do the talking.”

“You've been plenty honest with me, Harry, this isn’t a fair conversation.”

Harry snaps his head and turns his body in one swift move to fully face Louis, his breathing heavier.

“Don’t you _dare_ come here after all these weeks of lies and talk to me about what’s fair or not. Don’t do it. If you’re not gonna talk—and you’re not now, I can see the way you don’t even know what we’re doing up here because you had no plan, you just felt like apologizing,—then at least zip that mouth of yours and let me talk, alright? When you're actually ready, I’ll gladly hand over the talking to you. Capisce?”

Louis freezes at the quite spiteful mouthful thrown at him, surprised at the strangled yet stern tone lacing Harry’s voice. He wants to argue, but it quickly dawns on him that Harry’s right. So he gives him a small nod and runs his gaze across the sidewalks again.

Harry takes a couple of seconds to watch Louis carefully before moving to rest with his front against the ledge, kills down a bit of that tension in his body, and only then continues.

“My dad was military. Marines. It takes a whole damn lot to be a Marine. Served a couple of tours, got back home more and more broken with each. Mind that he wasn't so polished and diamond fine in the first place, that piece of crap. Went from an abusive asshole to an abusive asshole with stories about Afghanistan to tell anyone who'd listen at Frankie's and who wouldn't listen at home. They were brutal, Louis, neither me or my mom wanted to hear 'em. Home was hell. I don't blame my mom, toxic relationships ain't as easy to quit as the brochures say. Don't blame myself either. Can't put the blame on a frightened kid who hoped for better.”

He pauses to take a deep breath and shift a little on the ledge. He pulls on the string of his hoodie.

“See, some kids start actin’ up when even one of their parents’ attention is nowhere near even considering your person. They'd grab a baseball and hit the neighbors’ cars. Start fights at school, punch their sibling, rip the couch in the living room, all that jazz. And then there's that small, teeny tiny bunch of kids whose M.O. was set the moment they were born and, no matter what, they are not going to be who they hate the most. They won't become a bully, yeah? They'll become the opposite of what they're fed with. I had the luck to be in that bunch. Just dumb luck. Like everything.”

A second later he’s hoisted himself into the air so that he’s hanging half over the ledge, holding onto it steadily and balancing like it’s a walk in a park, legs crossed, muscles tensed up. By the third second of his acrobatics, Louis’ onto his first headache today.

“That Harry was young and hopeful. And naive as hell. He, I… hoped that my pile of horseshit father was going to loosen up, that he’d stop trying to force the military on me. He’d still make me fight, drag me to the playground outside. He’d check if I know how to operate an M1911A1 in the middle of the night. He'd hit me, abuse, drunk and sober. It sounds surreal when I talk about it now, I know. I wish I was joking.” He lands back on the ground, feet thumping on the surface.

That's a couple of sentences and Louis’ knowns some of it already but it's still a whole lot to unpack.

“I hoped for him to come to his senses. That he would come home and not be drunk. And now the cost of all of that hope is written all over me in a language so familiar that it has become a reminder. That hope means you care. You care, you get hurt. After my father died, I realized I couldn’t afford hope anymore. I had spent it all. That was what I was feeding myself with. I wanted to care less, to loosen the grip, to let things go. Just live. Let the ones who leave leave. Meet people, allow myself to feel what I feel, allow myself to do what I wanna do within the frame of respect. Sounds easy on the surface, but the deeper you go in, the tougher it gets. There comes a moment when your mask cracks and things get complicated.”

Silence falls between them as Harry sighs and shifts to tuck his chin into crossed arms, eyes taking in the view in front of him.

It's never _silence_ for Louis, but the ordinary morning of New York City sets his mind on a steady path, comforting.

“There are still nights when I wake up screaming. I still have nightmares. Wake me up when I have one and my first instinct is to attack, like I'm an ex-army man with serious PTSD.”

“Your room...” Louis interferes mindlessly, eyes not really focused on anything, but mind enthralled by Harry’s words.

Harry nods, or so Louis thinks given the little movement he catches out of the corner of his eye.

“No one comes into my room unless I trust them with my life. I trusted you, I just didn't trust your indecision, and you never seemed to trust yourself. What I'm trying to say is, all the shit I've told you about not caring, I meant it. But it's not something that you can turn off like Christmas lights after the season has finished. And you… I meant it, too. I might have lost hope but I never lost my heart. I figured it's better not to hope for something. Not to want something. That way you won't end up disappointed if it doesn't happen or gets screwed up. But then I started wanting _you_.”

Louis can’t help himself. “Why are you telling me this?”

Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. Looks around. Looks down. Shifts.

“Because you think you're the only dangerous thing that I've come across in my life. 'Cause… 'Cause you think that I'm a fragile doll that might break and run if you push too hard on it.”

“I don't consider you fragile.”

“Then perhaps you should stop treating me like you do.” His head snaps to the side, eyes immediately trained on Louis, annoyance crawling onto his face. “I didn't come here because I want to apologize or listen to you apologize, I'm sick of apologies. That’s for rom-coms and kindergarten I have no patience for this crap. I came here because a small pinch of hope crawled into my head a few weeks ago, cracked that mask, and now it's nagging me to ask why. To hope one more time that you're gonna make the right call. I want to know _why_. In as many meanings of that word as you feel comfortable with.”

“Harry—”

“You don't owe me anything, okay? In the end, we're all lonely trees in a forest standing ten feet away from one another just trying to reach out and feel a little bit less alone. So you don't owe me. I just kind of think you'd like to tell me. And I'd like to listen. Really. You got one last shot, Louis, don't blow it. You came here because you wanted to be honest. And I’m here because I promised I would. It’s your turn to elaborate.”

Harry seizes him, now calmer, clearly ready to listen to everything, and Louis knows what he sees. He stared at himself in the mirror before going out long enough.

Young. Tired. Vulnerable.

Scared.

One thing Harry was right about is that Louis has no plan. He hugged his aunt goodbye as she headed out to work. Learned how to use a blow dryer again. He turned on the new but old phone and checked the missed calls and texts. Figured he might as well fix it all now. All that he busted. Put the scattered pieces back together, pull them out of the back of his head where they had been nagging at him long enough.

The time of clarity has come and he's not stupid. He knows fault when he sees one. When he owns one. Or quite a pile of them.

He sighs, turning his back to the street and resting on the ledge, arms crossed on his chest. He looks aside, seeking for words.

“The jacket… This.” He nudges the material on his shoulder with his nose, losing himself in thoughts for a few seconds. “It's Dan's. A reminder.”

Harry gives him an unreadable look. “Walk me through this.”

“Jay told you her side of the story, the easy one, half the truth, and I guess… Well, I guess it's about time you knew about what actually happened all the way through.”

He exhales. “Alright. All ears.”

“I lost my parents when I was three,” Louis carries on easily, this part of the story easy these days. “It was an accident, so I had no reason to feel guilty. It happens. Plane crashes happen once in a while, don’t they? Wrong time, wrong place, made my peace with it. I miss them every day, but I can’t be hung up on what wasn’t my fault. They wouldn’t like me to either. And then, at the age of sixteen, same day as I first met you, my life got flipped upside down and shaken for good measure. I was a usual, too smart to be a real nerd going to school until I wasn't. I got these powers that at first I was scared of, and then tried to make money off of them by fighting steroid-filled necks on a ring. Not for myself, for my uncle and aunt. We had enough money to live by, but I felt the need to help.”

He drifts his gaze to the right away from where Harry's standing, gathering up some more courage and plotting the course of the words that  he wants to say.

“The day everything went to hell started off with me fighting back. One of the bullies, Nick’s friends, they don't go here anymore… He had the great, regular idea to shove me into the lockers. Something broke inside me, maybe I was finally done with the bullies, sick of bein’ picked on, no clue. But I dodged, turned. Blocked his punch. He broke his wrist and got a concussion.” He bites on his lower lip to stop the tremble. Sighs. “Dan dressed me down, rightfully. I argued, said I was defending myself. Called them losers. I run out, went to the fight club. The day was getting worse and worse, I figured out that I had been being tricked. I realized I was never gonna get paid. I'm surprised I wasn't robbed or some shit to boot that day.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “On my way home I went to buy a bottle of water. Just a bottle of water. I’d left my own on a bench in the changing room. I had a dollar to buy a new one, I wasn't going back to those assholes for one bottle of water, no way. So I bought my water, and headed back out on the streets to continue walking home. I was angry. At the club owner, at Dan who gave me a lecture about manning up and getting my shit together. I felt like I could let a murderer get away with slitting someone's throat in front of me. I was in a bad state. Two minutes later I heard shouts and a few shots.”

He shifts again, leaning on the ledge to train his eyes on the street, arms tight and close to his chest, body beginning to tremble from anxiety.

“I turned just in time to see a guy with a bag. Black beanie, black jacket, grey sweater. Almost laughed at how stereotypically criminal-ish he looked. A bottle of whiskey and a couple dollars peeking out from the unzipped sports bag. A gun in his hand. He was running in my direction. My first reflex was to do something. Stop him, trip him, even put the guy down, I was capable of it. I could have stopped him. But I was mad. I was angry that I had been  used as a pay-free monkey show, I was furious at the world for kicking my ass. Always kicking my ass. I couldn't bring myself to care that someone was robbed. It wasn't my problem, I had my own issues. That's what… What I told the owner when—when he asked me why I didn't do shit. Not my problem.”

He arches back to put his face in the crossed on the ledge arms and breathes. Shaky and heavy lungfuls leave his mouth a few times before he tilts his head up again, eyes narrowed and looking up at the bright sky.

“I stayed out, wandered around.” He glances back down, feeling the uneasiness taking over him, the inability to focus on one thing creeping into his body and making him shift every ten seconds. “I wasn't ready to go back home. I needed to cool down. Somewhere in the back of my mind I—I understood that Jay and Dan, they didn't deserve me spitting venom. I was my own problem. It was my thing to deal with. I was back at the apartment around three in the morning. They’d waited for me in the living room, having tea, still awake, worried sick, Jay's eyes red from crying. I was told to go to sleep which I was gonna do anyway. I wasn't in any condition for conversations. I was exhausted. The morning came too soon. Dan drove me to school, he tried to talk to me the whole ride.” He blinks away the stinging tears. “The—the whole ride, he… He tried to tell me that he was getting concerned, that I was coming home too late, that he just wanted to know if I was fine. That was all he wanted, to—to know if I was fine, he…”

Louis swallows, pressing his eyes shut, but the tears find their way out and down his cheeks anyway. He can hear Harry's heart skip a beat and is grateful that he doesn’t act on it. For now Harry does what he always does—respects someone's choice.

“He told me he loved me. He said, ‘I will be there if you want to talk, kid, always’. I didn't know there… there was never gonna be any always for him anymore.” Louis sniffles, burying one hand in his hair. “I nodded. Took my backpack. Got out of the car. I was about to close the door when he told me that life sucks sometimes, and that we all go through tough times, and that I should never give up because life is worth living nonetheless. And that… that you do what you can do or—or you watch as things fall apart because you didn't.”

He breathes in, deep and long, in and out. He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, the web-shooter underneath a stark reminder of who he is. _What_ he is.

“You get faced with that almost survival human emotion of... You know, this am I gonna sit down and feel sorry for myself or learn my lesson if there's one and move on kind of a feeling. And then you think of the person you've lost and the answer becomes kind of obvious. They wouldn't want you to wallow in self-hatred. Dan wouldn't want me living a life with revenge defining my doings. So I didn’t. I failed to save him, so the next right logical thing to do was to never fail to save anyone else. I never planned on losing myself in that idea.”

He pauses, sucks in his lower lip. Sighs. Tugs on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Not my problem,” he says, his voice now hoarse. He breathes out a short chuckle. “I let a guy get away with a minor robbery because it wasn’t my problem, and then the next thing he did was shot my Uncle. I was selfish and stupid. I'm—I’m eighteen, almost eighteen, and all I have is... guilt. And the never ending feeling that I have to fight to redeem myself, to pay for absolution even though the prize is nowhere to be found and I’ll never come close to  paying it. That's all I have. That's all I've become. It took me a while to admit it, but I got lost somewhere along the way trying to be better than I was on the worst night of my life. Somewhere along the way of… doing the right thing. Protecting. Jay, Niall. You.”

Silence falls between them. A raven lands on the ledge a few feet to Louis’ left, the opposite of where Harry’s standing. Makes some noise, flies away.

“It is my privilege to be head over heels for you, but I feel like it’s my responsibility to keep you away. And if you ask me, sometimes all I want to do is hold you and wake up knowing you’re still there because that’s how much I…” Deep breath. “How much I’ve fallen for you. You make me smile. You make… make me feel good. And I’m not asking for forgiveness. Not asking you to be with me whatsoever. I just need you to know that you were never the reason—the reason why we broke, I mean, neither you nor—nor Niall, Liam, I… It was me. It always comes back to me. I was trying to do the one thing I always do. Protect you all. Protect everyone but me. Which is the problem, Haz, and I'm tired.”

He rubs his neck, fingers tangling into the short hair above it, then wandering up to the top of his head where he tugs at a couple of strands. It feels weird. It feels fresh. Nice.

“I'm lost and tired, you know? Exhausted to the bone. I need some sleep. I need to breathe. And when I get my mind back into the right place, I'll go back to what I was meant to be. _Who_ I _want_ to be. I need to be that person who gives hope. Who… Someone who’ll be there no matter what.” He loosely waves a hand at the city. “Who will do the right thing strictly because it’s the right thing to do, not because I get anything from it. For the sake of the ones who can't. I think that’s what makes you a hero, doesn’t it?”

They’re quiet for a while, digesting the all the words that have been spoken Louis catching his breath and sighing at the relief pooling in his chest.

“My 'not my business' attitude cost me a loved one. I'm not letting that happen again. By all means, I'm not perfect. I’m still learning every day, I may fall and get up, but I always get up. That's what my uncle would have wanted me to do, that's what I need to do for myself. To prove that I'm worth something. And maybe forgive myself just a bit.”

There's a pause that Louis uses to even his breath out.

“You can’t do that, Louis,” Harry says in an almost whisper.

Louis blinks, looking at him in slight confusion. “I'm sorry?”

“That guilt thing. You can't do that,” Harry’s voice steadies and becomes louder. “You can't translate emotions into logic, because, see, humans, they aren't led by logic.” He turns to face Louis, resting on the ledge with his side. “We're led by emotions, led by,” he waves a hand, “anger, love, hate, passion, and then we stupidly try to translate it to logic. We try to make sense out of what we did, and we do it because we want justice, we as humans want to justify our actions even if they don't need to be justified. We want coherence where there's none. The human mind, it craves logic and it will never get it. Reality is as disappointing as you make it out to be. Make the best of it, stop looking for explanations. Move on.”

He pauses to uncross his arms from his chest and tuck his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He tilts his head sympathetically.

“You don't need to make sense of what happened and why it happened, Louis. You had no hand in it. You didn't pull the trigger. You weren't a psychotic asshole running around with a gun. You couldn't have possibly predicted the upcoming events, and neither did he. Don't put the blame on yourself, or at least not all of it. You can't live with blame, blame destroys you. It shoves your face into after-heavy-rains mud and tells you to breathe, it chokes you and tells you to take in a lungful. Cuffs you up and tells you to go out and live your life. But regret, it…” He opens and closes his mouth, clearly thinking through his next words. “You can live with regret. It makes you rethink what mistakes you made and then fix what needs fixing within yourself to not make it again. Being upset over a misstep only puts on a sign on every road similar to the one you stepped on and did wrong. It's a warning sign, a you-know-what-happens-if-you-do-this-again sign. A good sign. Make what happened a fuel to your actions, not a chain around your throat and ankles. A guide, not a blinder.”

Louis blinks, genuinely startled. It’s the most Harry’s ever said without pausing in between, overcoming the habit of overthinking everything he says which can make him a slow talker at times. 

“I don't…” He sucks in a breath, looking away. “I don't know if I can do that.”

Harry laughs softly. “Of course you can.”

Louis shakes his head, hugging himself. “That guilt… you know, it's all I have, all that's been defining me at the end of the day, and I know it's not good, I have to be better than that—“

In the corner of his eye, he notices Harry take a step towards him. His mouth falls shut.

“Then _be_ better than that.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Nobody said it is.”

“If I wasn’t—”

“Then the world would be a lesser place.”

Louis inhales sharply. “I need— “

“You need to _rest_.” Harry’s hands squeeze Louis’ shoulders, forcing him to look Harry in the eye. “You said it yourself. A few nights at home with good sleep. And a good cup of coffee afterwards. And a blowjob.” He earns himself a short laugh. “You need to make a decision, and decisions require will, sanity, and a mind where everything is in place.”

Louis stares some more, drowning in the kindness emanating from Harry’s eyes. He takes in the slightest blush on Harry’s cheeks, the shape of his lips, silky skin, a couple of curls poking out from his beanie.

“You, uh.” He bites on the inside of his cheek. “You and me. Can we… Can we start over?”

Harry lets go of his shoulders. “Not a good idea.”

Louis’ heart stops beating and drops to his stomach, useless and exhausted. He opens his mouth but no words come out, and he can see that there is no joke or lie written in the way Harry's eyes trace his body.

Taken aback, he nods like he understands despite the buzzing questions in his head. He makes to take a step back but Harry's fingers on his wrist stop him in his tracks.

Harry brings his hand up and taps Louis’ nose with a finger, a lopsided smile creeping across his lips.

“We can move forward. That's the only way I accept.”

Louis’ head snaps. He doesn’t even flinch at the short strike of pain in his neck. He pushes the tears gathering in his throat down with another hard swallow.

“You really should walk away, you know that.”

Harry rolls his eyes and looks at Louis like he’s a three year old mistaking the dishwasher for a washing machine.

“Still on about your fairy tale? You don't get to tell me what I should do, Louis.”

 _He doesn’t get it._ “I'm gonna go out there soon, put my ass in danger, maybe never come back one day, maybe crawl out of a trash can without a leg and my guts falling out of my stomach.”

“Alright.”

“I will fall asleep on you, won't make it to a date.”

“I realize that.”

Harry's stoicism starts working on Louis’ nerves.

“I’ll bleed on your clothes, be late to the movies, wake you up at three, make you worry, and…”

“And?”

“You good with that? You good with having a target on your back in case someone tears my mask off?”

It feels like a repeat of their conversation from two days ago but Louis can't be bothered. He needs Harry to _understand_.

Harry, on the other hand, remains unmoved. He crosses his arms against his chest, shoulders rising.

“You know this quote, ‘you say you love rain, but you use an umbrella to walk under it, and that's why I'm scared when you say you love me?’”

Does he _know_?

“You say you love wind, but when it comes—you close your windows.”

Harry gives a tiny nod in response. “I care about you. Which, apparently, makes precisely one of us. I like you. As far as I'm concerned, I want to be there for you. You can’t change that. You don't get to decide what I do, Louis. I'm staying. Not just for the fun, pretty parts. I’m staying for everything.” He pauses, eyes unmoving. “I want to have you whatever it takes. At the end of the day, the only thing I want from you is honesty. As long as you don't lie to me, I can patch you up every night. I'm staying. The question is, are _you_?”

Louis isn’t sure how long he’s shut his eyes for, doesn’t even remember closing it, but when he opens them, Harry’s scanning his face, down his neck and over his chest, fingers coming up to trail along Louis’ forearms, where just two days ago a map of bruises used to be.

Everything Louis wants now is on the other side of fear.

“It took some time 'til I run out of energy of playing someone I thought I was supposed to be,” he admits, words broken by the growing wind. “I'm done lying that I don't need anyone, that I can do it all on my own. I'm done lying that I don't want you in my life.” He smiles. “I'm staying. And Harry?”

“Mhm?”

“It works both ways. I'll be there when you need me. A shoulder to cry on, someone to talk to that will never rush you, a ride home, company to your Disney fever—”

He’s pulled into a tight hug quicker than he can register the movement. He nuzzles his face into the material of Harry’s hoodie like it's a lifeboat, barely holding back his strength as he tightens his grip around the boy's waist. He's being enveloped in a way that's never happened. Harry's the little spoon, Louis does the embracing. It feels so upside down now but so right, so in place to be looked after instead of doing the looking.

 He allows himself to settle into the comfort of the shape of Harry's body, of the familiar fit, the way they always seem to understand each other’s intentions and movements like it's a thing that's been going on forever. It never ceases to amaze him how _right_ it feels to be with Harry.

Voice muffled, he chokes out through a wave of upcoming tears, “Can't believe I'm askin’ after all this time but 'ave you ever made it to Mid-News?”

Harry laughs, the tremble of his chest setting up a fire in Louis’ veins.

“No, never. Never found a calling in twenty-eight. But I did find _you_.”

“So cheesy.”

“So dramatic.”

Louis smiles. He moves to withdraw but he quickly finds that his hands have stuck to Harry's hoodie.

“This usually doesn't happen,” he mutters.

“Your subconsciousness doesn't want me to go, apparently.”

“I don't. I really don't.” A gust of wind tousles his hair before he speaks  again, lower, quieter, hands finally dragging across the soft material, as if his senses have been assured he's good to let go. “Friends again?”

He’s being moved, Harry's hand is on his cheek in an instant, palm curled around the side of his head, thumb brushing over the cheekbone that two days ago was all shades of purple.

“Yeah, of course, always,” the glee in Harry's voice is coloring each of the letters.

His hand is gone before Louis manages to catch it. Then again, he didn't even try. _I promise I'll protect you. One day at a time._

“You deserve better,” he says and swallows, nerves wrecking his voice.

Harry quirks an eyebrow in question that quickly turns into a kind, wholehearted smile.

“People don't get what they deserve. They get what they get.”

“Alright, I stepped right into that one,” Louis admits, getting the reference.

“How about I get what I want, how's that sound?”

Louis seeks for some hint of uncertainty, finds nothing.

“In that case, I’m gonna need you to promise me something,” he adds. Harry tilts his head up. “You can never make me choose between you and Spider-Man. Ever.”

“Scared you'd choose a suit over a friend?”

“There's just no right choice. Doing things right isn't a thing, it's unrealistic. Someone always ends up wounded in the fallout of decision making.”

Harry gives him a long look while Louis watches as pinks dusts the boy's cheeks, drops his eyes to the cherry plush lips, then glances back up and into the green eyes.

“I can promise I'll never make you choose between a meet-up and saving someone's life. I do have a heart.”

Louis’ eyelids flutter shut in relief. “Thank you.”

They walk to the door, Harry first, Louis behind him. Louis sighs, swinging the door shut, lingering for a few seconds, bracing himself for facing the reality. There's so much he needs to fix, so much to do, so much to learn again.

He turns with a tired sigh.

“There's one place we need to stop by, I ha—”

The warmth of Harry's palm is on his cheek again, the other buried deep in his hair, and even with his heightened everything he barely has time to catch the last of the green of Harry's irises before they disappear under eyelids and Harry’s kissing him.

A surprised sound escapes Louis’ throat at the thud of his back hitting the closed door, and it's immediately swallowed by another kiss, and another one steals his breath, and his heart, and he's all gone for that boy, and for a second there he realizes he probably had to go through all this shit to get where he is now.

He kisses back, a shaky breath fanning across Harry's lips, tears prickling underneath Louis’ eyelids, then rolling down into the kiss.

 _What's wrong?_ The question transits through a small peck and a brush of his nose against Louis’ cheekbone.

_I'm scared._

It's only going to turn out if it's been worth it. The fingers digging into the flesh of his hip so far say yes, at least. They say that there comes a day when someone comes along and they change your life. No matter how cheesy it sounds, it's true. It may be small, it may be big, it may be a reminder that you're still human, that people do need other people after all. And that with responsibility must come rationality.

  
  


There's something about being locked up in one place for a certain amount of time that makes you think that the world has changed in your absence. Even if it's just three days and you're able to look out of the window whenever you please.

It hasn't. The world, that is. It hasn't changed at all. It's still exactly the same, moving forward, it’s not holding its breath and waiting for Louis to catch up.

Midtown High looks painfully the same. The flood of students hasn't begun yet, it's early, it's just him and Harry climbing the stairs still high on adrenaline from swinging their way to school. The guilt wears down with each step as Louis tells himself that he indeed can't tell Harry what to do and what to avoid, that it's Harry's call, that despite them being a thing now, apparently, they're still separate human beings with wills and decision making skills.

Harry's hand isn't in his, their entrance isn't cheesy like he thought it would be. They're not giggling or bumping shoulders, they're not flaunting. Not yet. One look at them wouldn't tell a stranger what they've gone through and where they stand.

It's okay. It's really okay. Louis’ never thought much of it, of relationships, but taking it slow and easy sounds like a good plan, and he's on board. Especially after all the theatrics he was pulling off, slow and easy sounds extra reasonable. At the end of the day, it's all about being able to hang out, talk, feel comfortable, and sympathize. It’s not about righting each other's wrongs, fixing the broken parts in one another, or walking on a beach painted with sunset.

They separate by Louis' locker, Harry placing a loud kiss on his forehead and leaving Louis with one of the first few genuine smiles.

Steady steps fill the silence in the halls as the chatter begins to grow louder. The students fill the building one by one, the younger ones slower, the older ones panicked to the point where it seems to be permanently  engraved on their faces. Louis’ at ease. He knows what he has to know, his knowledge having crossed the threshold for high school like a decade ago. The upcoming finals have nothing on him.

He walks up to Niall’s locker, meddles with it, closes it, and waits. It lasts two minutes and forever plus two false alarms filled with gut-twisting stress, and when Niall finally shows up a couple of steps away, Louis’ hand is already fiddling with the kevlar spandex.

Niall doesn’t spare him a single glance while he opens his locker. Only then his brows furrow, face coloring with confusion, and turns his head. Untouched by the lack of attention from Niall’s side, Louis holds his arm out in plain sight.

At that gesture, even Niall turns his head, eyes going from indifferent to stunned.

Louis gives him a smile that he can’t see yet, his gaze trained on Louis’ hand.

“We can afford it after all these lies, can’t we?”

When Niall’s eyes find his, he knows it’s going to be alright. That sometimes all you need is one more chance because you weren’t ready for the first one.

That maybe sometimes all you need to do is to accept help.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote all this. Genuinely thankful to C for beta-ing this and being a lot of help.  
> Epilogue is coming soon!  
> (comments and kudos appreciated <3)


	5. epilogue

 

“Tell me I'm an asshole, come on.”

“It's been weeks and the answer still stands. No.”

Louis pokes Niall's hip with his cap. “I know you wanna say it. Why won't you just spit it out so we can move on?”

Niall stops abruptly, hand on Louis' wrist, and turns them to face each other. While the excitement from the ceremony is still written across his features, his expression is now serious.

“Okay, I'm gonna say this once and only once, so keep your ears open and mouth shut,” he says, digging the finger of his free hand into the middle of Louis’ sternum. “My friend, my best friend, the one I thought I would always be able to protect and keep safe, this amazing, smart, kind friend of mine was hurting. And through my own selfishness and ignorance, I didn't notice. Shit, you were in a horrible spot, and I didn't know, didn’t  _ ask  _ when it mattered. I guess a part of me stopped wanting to excuse your behaviour at some point. And I'm sorry for that, Louis. I know you think  _ you _ should be sorry and we deserved better, which we sorta did,  but you don't have a monopoly on guilt. I wanted to blame you for us falling apart, I tried to, but at the end of the day you are just another human being, just like everyone else, who got a little bit overwhelmed with life and your responsibilities. You had some shit luck. Alright? Does that satisfy you? I’m not kissing you.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” Louis shrugs, Niall's words making his cheeks flush a soft pink. “I did everything the way I thought I was supposed to and it all went to shit anyway.”

“But you're here with us now, aren't you? If people don't get what they deserve but what they get, then maybe what you've been getting has been exactly that. What matters is that next time shit happens, we'll go through that together, right?”

Niall’s hands land on Louis’ shoulders, giving them a squeeze, before patting the sides of his arms, head tilted to the side, lips pressed together, like he’s trying to find the right word to end the monologue with but can’t quite monosyllabe it. 

“I'm an asshole,” Louis supplies, seeing the fond look his friend's giving him.

“You're an asshole, yeah.”

“See, that's—that’s better. I feel fulfilled.”

Louis laughs, but his guts twist and eyes water nevertheless. He barely gets the time to high five Niall before their interrupted by a voice.

“There you are. One would think that holding the ceremony outdoors would mean that there is more free space, but  _ damn _ is this crowd as tight as Cap’s long johns.”

He shifts, bumping into someone accidentally, his senses slightly fuzzy due to the onslaught of emotions the day has brought. He's immediately met with a wide smile from Jay and a proud smirk from Tony. The man draws his hand out, about to continue what felt like only the prologue to his speech.

“Congrats, kid. They didn't let me bring fireworks, those uptight a-holes, but if you—”

His words get cut off by the sudden  yank and a tight squeeze Louis performs on his chest in lieu of a hug. He reciprocates quickly and with no hesitation, giving Louis a pat on the back and ruffles his hair when they part.

“Good job, Louis,” he adds fondly. “It's a pleasure and privilege to know you. SI is ready to have you whenever you're ready. On an unrelated note, the America’s ass is back in town, so in case the blind devil’s too much to handle, Steve’s up for some sparring.”

“A blind lawyer ain’t too much, Tony, I can lift over ten tons,” Louis argues.

“He put you down in zero point three seconds yesterday with a single move.”

Louis tries to maintain an unbothered expression throughout the exchange but a quiet laugh breaks his facade. He’d answer if it wasn’t for the fact that speech suddenly becomes a forgotten ability once he turns to his aunt.

She's been crying, that's undeniable. There is redness rimming her eyes and a heavily used pack of tissues is clutched in her hands, which means that she looks about the same as most parents hanging around here. Except she's Jay, and Louis' chest knots as a wash of love and care floods over him and prevents him from functioning like a healthy human being.

Thankfully, only one of them is at a loss for words.

“Come 'ere,” she rasps out and pulls him in.

He breathes out a short laugh when the initial hug doesn't quite work out, having them crush painfully against each other, but they adjust quickly and he buries his face into the crook of Jay's neck.

“You proud of me?” he muffles into the material of her white blouse.

“When you have a boy like this with a smile like this, nothing can go wrong. Couldn't be prouder, angel.”

Louis peels himself away from his aunt aware that they are in danger of staying like this for an hour or five. She pinches his cheek playfully, earning herself a squeak and a chuckle. He feels seven again, light and free of responsibilities. For a second here, he feels more alive than in the past couple of years.

In keeping with the cinematic feel of the day, the approaching Styles family doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

Harry’s curls are an adorable mess, freed from his usual  headscarf that today was replaced by the ridiculous ceremony cap, and swirling every which way creating a fluffy halo around his head and down his neck. Louis doesn’t let himself think about how Harry will look in two, three years with his hair in braids or a bun, or with thick locks falling onto his shoulders. He can barely manage to keep his shit together at the sight of the Harry he sees nowadays, lord knows how much he’d lose it if he as much as pictures future versions of his boyfriend.

_ Boyfriend _ . He’s got a boyfriend now. And he works every day to not screw this up. Turns out that you actually have to do a lot to keep a relationship healthy, especially in his case. He’s still learning to tell the truth, even if it hurts. Still pushing himself to trust and allow people to take care of him, even if it’s as simple as massaging his back after a tough fight against a group of muggers. He's been finding out that withholding yourself from being loved is far worse than simply letting it happen. That being too afraid of giving yourself over to someone because of the risk you may lose them only makes you miserable, and he's tired of being miserable.

He might never get to the place of being at absolute peace with his mind, but the knowledge that he’s cared for and loved is enough.

Speaking of being loved and cared for—they’re fully insufferable as a pair. They’re the whole package you’d get in a twin flames book, if you ask Zayn. Finishing each other's sentences, knowing what the other is thinking with a single look, beginning to mirror each other instead of just predicting the other's next move. Harry can make the most out-of-place nonsense statements and you'll find Louis guarding that nonsense like it's the Mona Lisa, even though he knows full well that Harry talks some shit sometimes.

Niall's close to being done with heart eyes and constant contact that Louis shamelessly craves day and night though he has given up on being snarky about. The joke's on him, the girls in the cafeteria absolutely love Louis nuzzled into Harry's shoulder as he naps when he can and Niall will never—as in,  _ never  _ dismiss the attention of the opposite sex. 

While Harry’s mom—Anne, as she insisted to call her the first time they met which was hilariously overdue—busies herself with greeting  Niall, Jay, and Tony, Louis flashes Harry a wide grin. As if they hadn’t made out for half an hour this morning.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to Louis lips as he steps in front of him.

“What is it, Curly, wanna kiss me?” Louis chuckles, getting into Harry’s space and rubbing his nose against his.

“I always want to kiss you,” Harry murmurs, brushing Louis’ short bangs to the side, and plants a chaste kiss on Louis’ lips.

“You can’t just pull Gregory House on me and think it’ll go unnoticed.”

“Maybe I don’t want it to go unnoticed, baby honey, what about that?” Harry scrunches his nose and smooches Louis one more time before standing by his side and ruffling his own hair so the curls won’t fall into his eyes.

“Cheeky fucker.”

“Language, smartmouth.”

Louis doesn’t know what happiness is supposed to feel like, he hasn't had it for a while. He had moments of content and glee when being with his friends and Jay, moments of freedom and joy when swinging around and fulfilling his responsibility. He doesn't know what happiness is, but the way that Harry's breath fans against his lips as they part, causing warmth to spread around his heart and bringing him some peace, he thinks this may be a part of its definition. If there even is such a thing.

Louis brings his hand up to copy Harry's movement, forgetting that he’s decided to keep his hair shorter since Jay cut it several weeks ago. It’s easier to maintain and doesn’t get uncomfortable under the mask. It also makes him look older, but Harry insist he only looks tinier. Each to their own.

“Mister Stark, pleasure to finally meet you, sir,” Harry’s voice breaks through Louis’ thoughts and he realizes he’s been staring and hasn’t noticed that Harry’s attention shifted to Tony.

Tony seems to be doing his best to not beam too visibly, but the pride and happiness in his eyes is too much to hide even for him. He’s also looking at Harry like he’s the eighth wonder of the world, which Louis agrees with, he thinks that the man is probably a bit taken aback by the fact that Harry has just treated him like a regular human being. The fact that it must have not happen too often breaks Louis’ heart a little.

Tony shakes Harry’s hand.

“You must be the one who has Louis drawing hearts on every piece of paper he gets. Harry, is that right? He writes your name, too, by the way.” Tony’s eyes land on Louis for a second, sending him a mischievous look.

Louis suppresses an eyeroll. He knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this argument though. A certain incident comes to mind where his insistence that ‘no, I’m fine, I can focus’ excuse was met with disbelief after he had spilled web fluid for the third time in the span of ten minutes. 

“Plus, we met. Briefly. Through an AI. You threatened me with a jacket.”

Harry laughs. “That would be me, sir.”

“Please, just Tony. Don’t make me feel as old as I am.”

“No problem, Tony.”

“Threatened with a jacket?” Louis frowns.

“It's a long story. Or not really. But definitely not interesting.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugs, knowing full-on well Harry will tell the story anyways while trying to press the button on Louis’ web-shooter, insistent that Louis is simply ‘bullshitting about the amount of pressure needed to make it operate’.

“I've heard a great deal about you,” Tony continues, looking  back at Harry, “including the part where you're more capable of kicking ass than your boyfriend of a New York hero. Which brings me to the proposition of training for Special Forces. Funded by me, of course.”

“That's a proposition I'll certainly take into consideration, thank you.” Harry casts the man a wide smile and nods.

“So, Louis,” Anne’s voice makes all their three’s eyes turn towards Harry’s mom. She seems comfortable enough by Jay’s side, choosing not to comment on how closely Harry is snuggling into Louis’ side. “First at everything? Jay must be so proud of you.”

Louis throws his hand around Harry’s shoulders. It’s a little hard since Harry’s a tiny bit taller, but who is he to care?

“Almost everything. PE just wasn’t always up my alley, miss. Anne,” he corrects himself quickly. Once again he’s struck with how much she looks like Harry. Or Harry like her. In the daylight it’s even more noticable. “Harry’s second when it comes to the whole GPA thingy and he’s only around two hundred points away from my SAT.”

“And you found two typos and one comma placed wrong on the test,” Harry throws in.

Louis boops his nose.

“Like I said, he’s not so far behind. Unlike someone.” He sends Niall a shit-eating grin.

Niall doesn’t permit himself to actually roll his eyes as hard as possible, probably because by this point he’s close to straining the tendons keeping his eyeballs in place he uses them so much.

“Had you not make me laugh in the middle of the third to last exam at physics, I would have been right behind Harry. Jerk.”

“Liam was always gonna beat ya. He even beat you in the boyfriend material search, so what’s a couple of grades for him?”

“He did what now?” Niall’s brows furrow.

Harry cackles at the sight, hiding his face in the crook of Louis’ neck.

“Jesus,” he sighs, chuckling.

Jay and Anne appear to take as much joy as them at watching Niall being as oblivious to Liam’s former crush as ever, and Tony is just staring fondly like it’s a sight he never thought he’d get to witness.

“Never mind, Nialler,” Louis says, waving his hand that’s clutching his things. “Friendly reminder that you asked me to remind you that you promised your folks you would actually go with them for dinner.”

“I remembered that,” Niall’s tone betrays that he, in fact, did not remember shit. “Liam had a crush on me?”

“Go and catch 'em. See you later.”

“You better have all them movies, dude, or I’ll make you eat a bowl and keep the popcorn to myself.”

“Promises, promises.”

Niall pats his shoulder, says his short goodbyes, and jogs away, gown tugged high  so it doesn’t tangle in between his legs.

Harry’s arm tightens around Louis’ waist as he snuggles even closer. Louis signs his affection through a short rub of his cheek against Harry’s forehead, and then he focuses back on the women and a man in front of them.

“Speaking of the devil,” Jay says, her eyes wandering to the side.

Louis had noticed the absence of Liam’s parents at the ceremony and he had caught the flicker of sadness in Liam’s eyes but as he watches him approaching he can’t help but think that the collapse of Liam’s family has actually done him some good. Not to say it’s been easy for him, Liam has been caught crying a couple of times, and there was a Saturday when all five of them stayed at his watching movies all day because he couldn’t stop bursting into sobs. Overall however Zayn has proven to be an excellent source of happiness and an effective sleep aid, while Louis, Harry and Niall are always ready to spring into action should the need arise.

So far being ready for action has included Niall throwing tomatoes at the Payne’s house and Louis joining in when they discovered that the webs do indeed work well as catapults.

Overall, it's still pretty shit, but it's infinitely better for Liam's mind to finally be free of the abusive household.

Liam is walking towards their group in the company of Zayn who looks illegally good and, lo and behold, Nick. Louis does the 'lo and behold’ routine almost constantly nowadays but they have all come to terms with the fact that Nick’s behaviour has truly changed. The most surprising part of it all being the fact that he has managed to befriend the five of them, ironically growing the closest to Liam.

It doesn't go unnoticed when Nick's face does a funny thing at the sight of Tony Stark, and it's more hilarious the closer he gets.

“Who's the chump I haven't seen on your lock screen?” Tony's question hangs in the air for a second before Louis replies.

“Just a guy whose former enrollment in the bully program included making fun of me for claiming that I do an internship at SI.”

“Wonderful. This is gonna be fun then.”

And it is. Nick proves to be incapable of forming a proper sentence for a solid three minutes, and when he finally does, the introductions have passed, and Zayn is insisting they all three go and use Grimshaw elders’ private pool in Manhattan. In the end, Tony will probably remember Nick as that one guy who must have been pretty good at playing a fish out of water in the kindergarten spectacles.

After the trio is gone, Louis doesn’t need to worry about speaking. Anne is quick to invite everyone over for cupcakes and coffee, Tony tries to deflect the invitation only to nod like a chastised puppy after a stern gaze is thrown at him, and Louis fails to fight the almost painful smile that stretches across his face.

At some point a phone is being pushed first into his hand and then to his ear with a cheerful 'Louis, Gemma. Gemma, Louis!'. 

"The famous little one with the cheekbones who almost broke my brother's heart into pieces?" a very mature, feminine voice says once his back is to the Styles', Jay, and Tony. "Please to meet ya. Gemma."

Louis flushes red. He looks down, even though the sister of his boyfriend isn't physically here to dress him down.

"That would be me. Sorry about that, I never meant to do anything other than protect him."

Her smile transfers even though the phone.

"He's one stubborn ass when it comes to getting what he wants, isn't he?"

Louis looks at Harry, meeting his questioning look. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

“Just so we're clear, I'll personally fly my ass over to the US to rip your heart out if you even as much as hurt him a figurative or literal way again.”

He straightens his back. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Chrissakes, you're already talking like him. Gotta go, squirt. Lots of love and use condoms!”

When Anne and Jay take the turn to start walking away towards their respectful cars, and Louis makes to follow, his hand now entwined with Harry’s, Tony’s soft voice reaches his heart directly as the man joins the boys’ side.

“Careful there, kid. You keep going like this and you just may end up happy.”

  
  
  


A short time later they stumble their way towards Louis’ apartment. It's as painfully obvious as it can be and Louis would probably flush red if it wasn't for Harry distracting him with little kisses and giggles as they make their way via stumbling. It’s only one story down from Harry’s and they have managed to fall twice already.

They don't tell you in the movies that kissing while walking—even with superpowers in your back pocket—is not easy.

“‘t’ was the most embarrassing thing, freaking hell.”

“You're wasting oxygen, sweet cheeks, so much of it,” Harry murmurs against his lips.

It's not doing Louis a favor as his side is serving as a pillow for the doorknob and he has never gotten a chance to master putting a key into the lock while kissing and with his arm at a weird angle.

“Your fault,” Louis says, resting his forehead against Harry's, finally getting some scraps of his focus to work on opening the lock. “You were eating me with your eyes, you animal. And when did you grow this tall?”

“You're wearing a white shirt and your body is a wonderland. Cut me some slack.”

“That doesn't mean I had to be eyed by my aunt and your mom and get a crappy 'you boys go, we'll stay here for a while and catch up’ excuse that basically means 'you go and do the deed, we'll wait’.”

“Sensitive much about what people think?” Harry catches his running gaze and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Getting an approval to go and hook up with my boyfriend from Jay?  _ That's _ what I care about. This is embarrassing. And  _ Tony Stark _ was watching.”

“You're eighteen, I think the time to be ashamed of hooking up passed with the time your voice stopped sounding like an egg thrown at a ceiling.”

“A, this makes no sense, b, I don't even wanna know.”

The goddamn key won't fit.

Harry takes pity and yanks the keys out of Louis’ hand. “What would you do without me?”

“Live in peace.”

“Boring.”

One stolen glance away from the lock, one second.

“Shit fuck,” Louis hisses.

He may have superpowers but he still manages to fall onto his ass the moment the door swing open. 

Harry determines the situation as a perfect time to throw himself into a fit of giggles. He closes the door, moving Louis’ leg to one side with his foot in order to do so, and leans against it.

Louis uses the moment of quiet to once again take in the chic look that Harry's sporting. The fitted elegant black pants, silky white blouse with a delicate flower pattern down the buttons line stolen from Jay, black boots. Somehow the tousled curls suit the look more than it should, but Louis is more distracted by the striking contrast between the whiteness of the blouse and the cherry sweet darkness of Harry’s parted lips which are currently parted in a soft smile. Not to mention the way they stand out from the canvas of the paleness of his skin.

Christ, Louis is so done for.

And then this jackass has the audacity to say, “See something you like?”

Louis doesn't really think before his mouth moves. He isn’t even fully aware when it happens.

“Think I see something I might have fallen in love with.”

He thought it would feel bigger than this, but stating a long-lasting fact doesn't turn out to be so groundbreaking and heartstopping.

Harry's initial surprise at the unexpected answer wears off quickly. He pushes off from the door, holds out a hand, and smiles.

Deja vu hits Louis the second one of Harry's locks falls into his eye.

“I think I might have fallen in love with you, too,” Harry's voice decreases in volume as he speaks. 

Louis reaches up and brushes aside that one stubborn lock from Harry's eyes to catch a glimpse of the earnest look he's being given. Only then he accepts Harry's help and allows himself to be pulled up to his feet.

“My room?” he asks, toeing off his shoes, Harry following suit.

“I dunno, your couch has kinda grown on me.”

He elbows Harry in response and earns himself a soft shriek. When their shoes are off and neatly stored on the rack, Louis wastes no time to get to his kingdom.

“Coffee?” he throws a question into the void as he's picking his brand new cup with House's face printed on it. He's not gonna lie, he loves getting gifts from Harry. “You know, you owe me vanilla muffins. You bribed me earlier with the promise of their taste.”

“You just had coffee,” Harry reminds him, leaning against the fridge.

“Is that supposed to be an argument or a threat?”

“Neither. Just making sure you realize that it's your second coffee in an hour. A friendly reminder, you asked me to tell you those things.”

Louis’ stomach finally knots. It's almost a relief—he's felt it trying to do so ever since they left Harry's apartment. His finger hovers over the button on the coffee machine.

He sighs, then swallows, and rests his hands on the counter.

“I promised to be honest, huh?”

“You did,” the tone is far from pushing and prying.

“So if I'm gonna be honest I'm trying to postpone the moment we'll get into my room and things go further than they ever have.”

It feels odd to say that given that it's kind of only now that his worry has fully formed in his head. Funny how our bodies seem to know things before we really do.

Harry closes the distance between them with a few steps and slowly turns Louis so they can face each other. He brushes a couple of strands of Louis’ hair, tucking a nonexistent lock behind his ear. Then his finger wanders to Louis nose where it taps twice, making Louis look into his eyes.

“You know that we literally don't have to do anything, right?” His voice is slow and steady, as it always is when he is putting a lot of thought into what comes out of his mouth. “Just because our parents dismissed us to have some fun doesn't mean we have to do what they think we are gonna do. I just want to be with you. Whether it's rewatching  _ House _ , listening to your technobabble, kissing, cuddling. We can go get tacos, we can go to sleep. You're all I need now. Got it?”

Louis didn't think the ‘released the breath he was holding’ book thing was real until his own lungful leaves through his nose in trembling waves. He looks down, then back up. Gives Harry a tentative smile.

“Sorry, I just assumed… Because you're around people so much, told me about your past relationships, and… Thought you’d want...” He sighs, a hand reaching up to rub his neck. “It was stupid, forget it.”

“You're not the one who tried to Nutella their phone four days ago, you don't get to talk about stupid.” Harry cradles Louis’ face in his hands, making Louis’ arm drop back down. And, lord, his hands. “We'll do whatever you're comfortable with.”

“You don't have a monopoly on making people feel good, Hazza.”

“Do you trust me?”

Louis considers every recent moment he managed to tell Harry what he actually felt in the moment he was asked. “Yes.”

“That's enough for me. Relationship is a game that only works when two players play on the same team, communicate, listen, and honest about their needs, quirks, and wants. No pushing, no forcing. Trust. When I ask what you want to do I have the choice to agree or disagree.  _ Really _ . So, what do you wanna do?”

Louis considers the question. He really does. The longer it takes, the sharper the answer is.

“I really want to just kiss you for now. In my room.”

A grin puts dimples on Harry's face.

“If I hit my head on the bunk bed again, I'm suing you.”

“It's 'cause you're lame and won't make out on the top bunk.”

“Less talking, more kissing.”

“Decision approved.”

Harry's hands slide behind Louis’ neck and he pulls him up for a kiss that starts off so slow, so feather-like that a year ago Louis would never consider it a kiss.

It's a hinted, brushy touching of their lips, shared more and more shaky breaths, accidental nose bumps, occasional bites. And it's somehow the best thing Louis’ experienced in his short but getting gradually weirder life.

“Hazza,” his voice comes out in a rasp. His hands wander to curl around Harry's wrists. “I lied.”

“Hm?”

“I lied. When I said I didn't like you. That one day.”

Harry puffs out a laugh that fans across Louis’ cheek. “I kinda figured.”

“I just want no remains of lies between us.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, thank you, too.”

Another word that sounds a lot like 'bedroom’ and Louis doesn't know and doesn't care who said it. What matters is that he's using his brain now and there's no more walking while kissing—he trades it for pulling Harry's legs up and around his hips, taking advantage of what he was given by circumstances. Harry's grown since February, slightly so, but now he's unquestionably taller than Louis and it's kinda hot. By kinda he means a whole damn lot. Familiarity with the loft makes it only slightly easier to navigate than their attempts on the stairway, but it's still better and Louis doesn't feel like wasting his time. Doesn't feel like wasting his life.

Harry follows his lead, ankles locking behind his back in a swift move as Louis' hungry hands slide over his waist and grab his ass to yank him closer.

They do make it to the bottom bunk, mostly because Louis refuses to even think about standing for one more second, and it's where Louis gleefully straddles Harry's waist.

“Comfortable?” he asks, settling himself a little lower. His back won't be so happy about bending ninety degrees, and he really needs his back.

Harry being Harry yanks one of the buttons on Louis’ shirt open, the everlasting smile dancing on his lips.

“Almost.”

“Hmm, why's that, sweet creature?” Louis’ hands find their place above his boyfriend's shoulders. “What's missing?”

He doesn't get a verbal answer but the nonverbal one is enough to be understood. This kiss has nothing from the one they shared in the kitchen—it’s deep, it's about tongues and sucking, and biting, and  _ holy shit _ .

“Holy shit.”

“Language,” Harry manages to mock Jay's tone and even fits a chuckle between one kiss and another. “ _ Sweet creature _ .”

Louis hums an indistinct answer and decides that he wants Harry's neck now, so that's what he does. He's getting better at being assertive.

“Holy Jesus on ice,” is what he gets in response, half of which sounds like a hiss, and the other half like a moan.

He chuckles into the skin above the hem of Harry's blouse. He allows himself a second or five to store in his memory the smell he's being hit with. Calvin Klein, the sweetness of the cupcakes they just had, the tang of sweat from the inhumanely warm outdoors graduation ceremony. If he focused enough, maybe he'd know what Harry had for breakfast two days ago, but he saves that idea of exploration of his senses for another day.

For now he focuses on the task on the hand which is stubbornly sucking a hickey where everyone can see. He wants to say the m-word, he really does, but it's not the time. There will be one for that, it's just not now.

“You smell so good,” he says instead.

“Hmhmm. You talk rom-com rubbish. I liked the kissing part better.”

“You made me watch three fucking rom-coms last week along, you suffer now and don't complain.”

“Boo-hoo. Crybaby, I can be your shoulder.”

“I can be your Goo Goo Dolls,” Louis murmurs the question as a statement, breathing out a chuckle at the memory of their first meeting.

“Naaah. _I_ _can be your hero, baby_ ,” Harry sing-songs, voice dropping to whisper and then to silence as Louis complies and goes back to the kissing part, decisively cutting his boyfriend off. 

Louis might have little to no experience but he also has an impressive IQ and both the IQ and the part of his life he spent on watching certain things he's not so proud of tell him that this is about to morph into something more pretty soon and his inner alarms go off one by one. 

And because Harry has his own extra sense for when Louis feels off, the kiss is broken and there's a hand on Louis’ cheek and a questioning look.

“What is it?”

Honest. Be honest.

“Wherever....it’s—it’s, you know, going… I've never done more than kissing,” he admits in a low voice, shifting his gaze between Harry's eyes and the blue sheets.

“I already told you, we don't have to do anything, alright?” Harry stroking his thumb into a soothing motion. “Kissing is fine. You're panicking for no reason, yeah? We've just graduated, it's the middle of a day, we have a lot of life ahead of us. We have time.”

“But what if I want to?” There's the truth. He can't really lie when said truth is getting achingly uncomfortable in his for once comfortable non-trackies pants. 

“Then you have nothing to be afraid of. I'm as green as you are. Whatever you'll discover, I'll discover that as well. Okay?”

That answer throws Louis off the loop for a second. He might or might not have assumed that with the way Harry loves his life he's already done more than smooching. Once again he's proven that assuming is a crap thing to do and does nothing but bring you down.

“Okay.”

Two seconds later he's tracing his lips across the little scar he found two weeks ago, just an inch under the right side of Harry's jawline. 

“In that case, can I take your shirt off? Or would you rather you do it?”

Louis pauses at the question. He's not necessarily ashamed of anything, he just doesn't consider the ugly scar on his sternum and the after-being-thrown-at-a-trash-can bruise on his side and back too appealing. 

Harry's seen worse. Harry cares. Harry has kissed his bloodied lips more numerous times. Harry's been through shit himself. Besides that, Harry is one of those people who make him feel wall-to-wall safe. He's fine. He'll be fine.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

He straightens up as much as he can, head hanging under the top bunk, hands eventually rested on Harry's hips, then above his shoulders.

The process of undressing his upper body goes quicker than he thought it would, but then again, he's not in a movie. There’s no zoom in, no slow motion. There still is a shiver or two, a gulp, nervous trembling, and twitching of his jaw, and then the shirt goes off. Louis helps and  throws it off his shoulders and arms, it lands on the floor with the softest  _ thump _ that echoes in Louis’ ears.

He assumes that the feeling of being eaten alive doesn't sound right but his IQ has now flown out of the window and he's left to no other descriptions of the way Harry's looking at him.

“So pretty.”

_ You're so cheesy _ dies in Louis’ throat.

There are hands sliding up his thighs and sides, and there are goosebumps, and he's all mush and melting ice-cream, and his mind is still circling around the two words. For no reason. It just sounds so good, feels so good to allow himself to not deflect when someone takes care of him, to not withdraw.

Soft, careful hands wander over the fresh bruising, ghost over the shape of the white, bumpy lines on his sternum, they find various forms of scarring and trace each one they can reach.

Senses skyrocketing, Louis lowers himself for a kiss the moment he feels embarrassment creeping on his cheeks and neck. He tugs onto Harry's blouse, fingers trembling.

“May I?”

“Of course,” comes a steady response.

This task demands more gymnastics and chuckles and ‘it's silk, Louis, careful there or I'll shave your head in your sleep’, but when it's done with Louis might as well cry.

He doesn't know why, once again. His body appears to have reactions he doesn't understand for the life him. He just feels so much and it's all so good that he doesn't really have a clue what to do with the overload of emotions and happenstances.

In that urge to throw a fit of sobs he forgets that he has a shirtless Harry underneath him and once that thought settles in,  _ it settles in. _

“You were hiding that under all those layers, you selfish, heartless butthead?”

All those soft but defined muscle. Not like a gymnast, not like a runner, not like anything. It's just Harry and his weird life written in every muscle and the delicate yet still sharp enough to notice lines, the slim and still boyish sketch of his waist and hips.

There's a map of scattered scars of many kinds, a couple of them from brutal usage the boy as a personal ashtray. Several lines seem to be leftovers from the forced trainings that Harry sometimes talks about, those must have been with knives. The mark above Harry's right hip looks way too much like something that Louis prefers not to think about.

It's not bad. It's not horrible. It's barely there, the remains of the past faded and slight enough to not be noticeable if one doesn't focus much. But given Louis’ heightened senses and through-the-roof awareness fueled by his infatuation, it's like seeing black on white.

He runs his thumb over each one of the marks, paying attention to not come across as a creep romanticising abuse, and rather express his care and a fair amount of sorrow. The last thing he wants is to come across as a predatory dickhead.

Harry rolls his eyes in a mix of fond and this oh-come-on thing, and Louis’ still hasn't quite gotten the hang of how Harry does that, but there's no shame in his eyes, no doubt, no self-consciousness. No facade. It's like he's saying  _ you either want me or not, choice is yours _ . Louis didn't know he had body type and  _ type _ preferences until now.

“Nobody has been stopping you from removing those layers, smarty pants,” Harry says finally with the tiniest strangle in his voice. “And you saw me shirtless already.”

Louis dimly recognizes the words as true. 

“I was busy then. With setting things right. You really do have four nipples, then?”

“You have off-the-charts IQ, I have additional nipples. We work with what we've got.” Harry sends him a lopsided grin. “Now kiss me, you goddamn fool.”

“It will be my genuine pleasure.”

Harry laughs into their kiss and so does Louis, and there are a couple of less or more accidental bites, but when they find their rhythm it's sweet and sound, and they fall into it together. The sound of Harry's heart thuds in Louis’ ears, so do shifting bones and sped up breaths. Each of his senses is gradually going insane—from touch, through smell and sight, to hearing. He doesn't think he wants to control it. He lets go, sets them loose, allows himself a better intake of everything, even if it means coming undone quicker. He's selfish like that.

When his breathing speeds up and the sensory overload becomes so much he rips the sheets he gripped on, he falls into a fit of giggles and rests his forehead on Harry's sternum.

“I think I’m having an Edward Cullen moment here,” he rasps out and bites on Harry's skin, making the boy squeak and pull Louis up for another kiss broken with laughter.

“Don't break the bed, beast boy.”

“M’ too broke to.”

It's not until two fingers hook onto the hem of his pants that the recollection of the discomfort in  them flies to the forefront of his mind.

“Mhm,” he mumbles an affirmation, hands crawling up to Harry's jaw from where they were trying to map out every inch of the boy's chest.

“What mhm?”

“Go for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The button and the zipper don't go undone without a hiss on Louis’ part, though, because  _ holy shitballs. _

“I don't think I'm gonna last,” he admits when Harry's nimble fingers part the sides that the zipper was just holding. “Just forewarning you. My senses are going absolutely mad, like, all I feel is you, a hundred times you.”

The ridiculously expensive pants that Louis fought with Tony about go down a few inches.  _ Goddamn tease _ .

“And how’s that feel?”

“Like…” He swallows, his heart skipping a beat.  _ Heartheartheart _ . “Like you're heart is beatin’ inside of mine.”

That startles Harry. A second or an hour pass until he moves again and Louis fails to form something more senseful before Harry's knuckles run up the outline of his hard-on and he earns himself a half hum, half moan. It's embarrassingly reminiscent to Cactus yawning on a couch, but appears to work enough for Harry to bite onto Louis ear.

Louis  _ whimpers _ .

He really, really should have expected Harry's next move. He really should have. It's a simple as two and two making four. And yet he still almost chokes on a sharp inhale as a tongue makes its way halfway through the shell of his ear.

“Wanna tell me what you want or no?” 

It takes Louis about a decade to comprehend the fact that a question has just been asked. He turns his head and rests his forehead against Harry's.

“Hm?” Yeah, there's the smartest student in Midtown High.

Harry breathes out a chuckle.

“I guess I'm asking about your preferences. If you have them. You don't have to. We'll find our ways as we go.”

“Yeah, sounds fine, sounds fine, mhm. Just… Yeah. It feels okay. Good. It feels good.”

He earns himself another chuckle and he hastily kisses it away.

“Safeword?”

“Safe what? You're taking advantage of the absence of my brain, Harry, speak human.”

“Safeword, baby honey.”

Somewhere in Louis head the word starts making sense and oh. Oh, okay.

“Let's go with green and red, and it's green like a goddamn field of peachy green sunflowers on my side. Yours?”

“You're impossible. Green.”

The conversation appears to be over— _ finally _ —and Louis’ quick to even forget what 'green’ means. Is it a word? Is it an emotion? Is it an animal? Someone probably knows but not him. Not when there are fingers on the back his boxer briefs, pulling them lower, lingering a little as Harry takes his sweet time to actually squeeze what he always complained he only got to see in underwear, humming in response to Louis’ shaky sigh, and then there's a hand on the front of the boxers, and in, and  _ mommyfu _ — 

“Ohmygod.”

He loses sense of time and sense of everything really. If asked, he probably wouldn't guess what planet he's on. Everything is so much, almost too much, and he both can't breathe and hyperventilates, and maybe there are lips on his… No, there are definitely lips, and  _ he's _ doing the kissing, he needs the kissing, he needs the grounding, he needs Harry to know that it's good, that he's good, that, shit, that he needs  _ him _ . He  _ needs _ Harry.

“Harry, Harry, Harry, stop, hey, Hazza,” the words come out in a tangled mess but the pace of Harry's hand decreases to almost zero. “Haz.”

“What is it?”

Louis steals three seconds to situate himself and he finds that his nose is nestled under Harry's ear. He kisses a couple of spots there and undigs his fingers from the boy's rib cage.

_ Want you. _

“I want you. Can I…” He swallows. “Can you…”

Harry’s heart skips a beat, breath hitching in his lungs. “Green, yes, yeah, of course.”

“Good. Okay.”

It will probably later dawn on Louis that it's yet another time that he greenlights being taken care of, but what matters now is that four hands are onto unbuttoning Harry's pants and soon but what feels like not soon enough Harry's fingers wrap around both of them, and Louis might as well die on spot. Except he doesn't, and instead he's biting Harry's collarbone, then shoulder, then his hand finds the other hand and somewhere at the back of his mind he's greeting the first time he's rubbing one off and not himself.

“We should learn sign language,” Harry breathes into his ear.

“What the fuck, Harry, what are you talking about?”

“Dunno, just crossed my mind,” the words come out in a slur.

“Yeah, I think about sign language during sex, too.

“Stemming the rose.”

“First— _ fuck _ —off, get out with the  _ Brokeback  _ bullshit, there’ll be no— _ shit _ —stemming now, and second, don’t you dare stop.” 

The only comprehensive thought he gets a flicker on is it was a great decision to turn the earpiece off before the coffee and cake at the Styles’. But even that one vanishes when the shattering rhythm of Harry's heart fills his own chest.

The word willpower gains on its meaning when he forces himself to move up and catch Harry's mouth in a sloppy kiss, and he gives up, he can't focus enough. The free hand that he's been trying to find a place for clutches onto the sheets and his body wanders up a little bit, just enough to feel Harry's teeth on the crook of his neck. He lets out a choppy moan.

“Haz—”

“I know, I know, it's okay.”

Never in his life would he have thought that a small lick along his collarbone would have him come undone but that's exactly what does it.

“Shitshitshit.”

Some scraps of his consciousness move his hand onto Harry's, firmer this time, undo the hold he has on them both, and replaces it with his own, focused only on one of them. No coherent words come out of Harry's mouth so since they're just as good as busy Louis bites onto the cherry lower lip. It turns out to be about it.

The quiet cry of pleasure rings in his ears as he licks the bite, soothes the plush flesh with his tongue, and moves down, down, placing kisses along Harry's trembling throat, then a collarbone, sternum, and back up to his mouth where he has no other option but stay when Harry's hands make their way onto his neck.

And because Louis is Louis and there's no peace in his head ever, apparently during handjobs as well, he withdraws and falls onto Harry, shifting slightly to the side, a question already forming in his mind. Whether it's comfortable or not, it's up to debate, and the sticky-stuckum on their bellies would be a valid argument in it, but for now it has to do

“You ever finish that interview thingy for The Bugle?” He asks raspily once his head is settled on Harry's shoulder.

There's a skip in the slowing rhythm of Harry's heart. 

“See, about that…” He swallows, tightening the grip on Louis’ waist, the other hand going up to draw shapes on his shoulder blade. “I don't know how to say that without candy coating.”

“What, they kicked you out?” Louis frowns.

He doesn't get a reply so he pushes himself up enough to look Harry in the eye, resting his weight on his elbow.

Two seconds. That's all it takes.

“You served me bullshit, didn't you?”

Harry scrunches his nose, eyes crinkling in the corners as a smile follows.

“Basically, yeah.”

“Why would you even… What for?”

“Now that I think about it, I do think it was cheap. It worked though. Never as planned, with plenty of bumps and cracks as the road went, but yeah. It worked.”

“What—” Louis cuts himself off at the sight of a sweet small smile shifting into the shit-eating grin that Harry does when he knows that Louis knows and it's supposed to be funny. “Seriously? I thought you are all about simplicity.”

“I'm also all about fun,” Harry counters truthfully.

“Couldn't have just asked me out?”

“But would it have worked?”

Louis’ mouth hang open and then shut close. Well. Point taken.

“Yeah. Didn't think so.”

Louis’ memory back-pedals. A day, a week, a month, a year. Back to where they hit off, back to where they first bumped into each other. And then a little bit further.

And he fast forwards to where they broke, and where decisions were being made because of things he felt like he had under control but never really had. To where he didn't understand that the past is more than just memories. It's what you're selling your soul to every day.

“I'm gonna tuck us in, lay here for like ten minutes, kiss you, and go,” he says absently.

“That’s frankly disgusting but catch me not caring.”

He does what promised, maybe prolongs it a bit, and withdraws. He starts untangling himself from the mess of bodies and sticky substance he isn't yet ready to call it its rightful name just yet, as science-esque as it is.

“You gonna leave me alone here now, Cinderella? When will I see you again?” Harry laughs, following suit.

“No, I just…” Louis pushes himself up from the bed and does his zipper. “I just feel like I really need to pee.”

Harry sprawls on the bed. “Told you not to drink the whole bottle, knucklehead.”

Louis freezes—good way freezes. A smile crawls onto his lips, relaxed eyes locking with Harry's.

“I know you did. Thank you, I'll remember next time.”

Harry's face colors with smugness. “Seriously, what would you be without me?”

“Missing half of me.”

Perhaps sometimes a mistake has to be made more than once to learn from it.

There's a pause and quiet as Louis soundlessly makes his way to the door where he stops and turns to look at Harry.

“Hey, love?”

“Hm?”

“What in gay hell is Goo Goo Dolls?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a ride.  
> The story's by no means perfect, but I'm still proud I managed to write and finish it as the non-native that I am. Once again, all the love to C who beta'd the story, and lots of love to the people who's read through that thing.  
> I may have plans for future stories, now that I kind of learnt how to write. Hopefully, til next time!


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